I've managed to hang onto this thing through a lot of years of moving around and out-right running. The cover is smooth and clean, the spine is stiff. It looks new and well cared-for…instead of twenty years old and ignored.
Why have I kept it? These slick pages and washed-out photos hold memories that I've never felt a need to stir up. And yet when I wanted it, I knew exactly where the book was, lurking in a drawer among other the other things I guard but never look at.
Do I really want to open this book and remember?