There’s something so intimate about hand-me-downs, don’t you think?
As a child, I hated using things my brother no longer needed. I felt as if he was more important so he got to use brand new things: like a new study table. (I was too small to use anything else yet.)
I had outgrown my tiny table and got promoted to using my brother’s.
Why can’t I get my own table?
But studying at that table with my brother next to me, my feet hardly touching the ground, are the earliest memories I have of my first home; one of my fondest memories.
I loved to read and I’d read my storybooks cover to cover and answer all the questions at the end of each one before they were taught in class as my brother practiced his math questions, scribbling squiggles and pluses and minuses.
As I grew a little older, I would wear clothes from when he was small. I didn’t really mind. I don’t remember complaining about it; the table was another matter. In my head, it was every individual’s inviolable right to possess their own table.
I wear round neck t-shirts my mother used to wear at one point. There are three of them, of which two go wherever I do.