A few months ago my parents bequeathed to me a box containing “things” of my past. Without my knowledge, they had kept everything I had ever done since I was 3 – including report cards, drawings, letters, pictures, etc (my father took great pride in this, which tells you a lot about the man).

Among those files was a story I wrote in Junior Kindergarten – well, co-wrote, as the handwriting will shortly reveal. I want to share it with you, so here it be, in all her glory:

(Page one does not disappoint, with a poignant self-portrait not seen since the likes of Picasso. It also reveals the date this was written: sometime between September 1985 and June 1986).

(The caption says “I made a snowman.” Not only am I flying, but my snowman is red and the snow-covered ground is brown.)

(My family is eating dinner in this one. Meatballs, soup, and rice. And a second table full of rice. Take note of the food theme. It shall return.)

(“My people was home.” I saw “suns.” This was my early rapper phase.)

(“The next time I went home, my mother was cooking.” More food. This is where my “Everybody Loves Raymond” complex develops.)

(Coloring is fun. So is having your mommy cook you dinner.)

(The End)!