High school, if my shameful math skills add up right, is what, 15–16 years ago? I’ll bet that in the passage of years, some memories have gotten more than just a little bit warped. It’s fun guessing which ones are true, though.
But it has certainly been interesting, the strange patterns, permutations, and imagined (or maybe real—who knows now?) pairings that we are starting to uncover. Unrequited love? Lost (more likely confused) love? Which teacher had a crush on which student? What food was banned from the classroom in third year? Who blew up the toilet bowl in the men’s room when we were in freshmen year? Or exactly what color was that old bike, Franz? The photos hardly dislodge a clue.
I opened a few boxes over the weekend in search of high school photos to post, and I found two rather interesting ones. The first was a snapshot taken at a beach of the boys from my batch, how young they looked, and how cocky, and carefree. The other photograph was a rare one, showing my old group—all smiles and huddled together as only high school girls can well, huddle. The photos documented the friendships, groupings and ungroupings, some migratory, some lasting until now.
Years later, distance, a few deaths, and lives that have gone a thousand different ways finds us scouring our collective memory for good times, purer spirits, kinder hearts, happier days.