I moved to Clifton last week, out of my parents’ home and into my first apartment, just in time for the dog days of summer.
I moved with my family a couple of times over the years. Each time I move I find a trace of my childhood worthy of a chuckle or pang of nostalgia — a movie ticket from a first date, an old diary teeming with girly, juvenile discourse.
During my move to Clifton, I found an old picture album, warped from years of storage; it looked more like a neglected library book.