I’m watching an old home video. My dad’s filming our old house, on the day we moved out. All our furniture is gone, and the house is just an empty shell. Or an almost-empty shell, because if you live somewhere, you always leave traces of yourself. Dad does a quick tour of the kitchen, then opens the pantry door. “This is probably the best part of the kitchen,” he says. On the inside of the door are penciled-in heights of me and my siblings, and even a few of my cousins’. They’re all marked with precise dates, some worn away with time and some only a couple months old. Dad pans over the measurements, starting from the shortest and working his way to the tallest. Fourteen months, 16, 18, four years, seven… “I’m so proud of her,” he says.
I wonder if those marks are still there.