I don’t actually rememberthose early years—these images are taken from my mother’s photo albums, memories pinned down in time like captured butterflies tacked to cardboard for display. In my mind, my parents have never aged—they’ve always looked exactly the same as they did the last time I saw them, despite any photographic evidence to the contrary. The people in these old pictures resemble my parents the way a candle’s flame resembles the roar of a bonfire. I see pictures of myself as a child and I don’t quite believe that’s me.