Today the 30-something driver of the #18 Oakland-to-Richmond bus said affectionately, “Goodbye, Mom” when I disembarked.
Yesterday the checkout clerk at Andronico’s — who had ten years on me, easy — was talking about some artifact from the late forties/early fifties, which happens to be before I was born. “Ahhh, the good old days, huh?” he sighed, nodding at me meaningfully, as though we shared a memory.
What do people see when they look at me? Not what my mind sees.
These photos are at 18-year intervals. Strange… because while the last one was taken today, I’m positive I look like the Ginna in the middle.
I don’t really think of you as any of the three — merely as a creature called Ginna, a composite of memory and experience. But then, I ain’t no stranger to you. I’ve known you for a few years.
La.
You, too, have changed over those years. You no longer look quite the way you did in that middle photo up there. That’s lucky. Otherwise, people on campus would probably think you were pretty weird-looking as you traipsed off to linguistics class with that bald baby’s head of yours.