Maya’s Memories L. Hernandez Going through the scrap paper, photos, and old report cards, Maya felt that she was getting a rough outline of who she was. The scribble on the box said “six years old,” but bits and pieces that she pulled out of the box were things that had happened a lifetime ago. She was surprised by her embarrassment, her face growing hotter and redder each time she pulled something from the box. It was hard to conceal her horror when she came across a messily scrawled note that documented an argument she had with her mom about watching “dum no color movees.” Then, she saw an old picture. Upon seeing her tiny self dressed in furry boots and sweatpants, she felt a combination of shame and laughter wash over her. She remembered the fit she threw to get the boots, and how she felt, briefly, like the coolest kid in the world when she wore that outfit to school. Maya was drawn to the box. She felt that her life was now empty, so unlike the full life she had when she was younger. It didn’t take long to figure how untrue that was. What was so great about being six
