The other half says they still exist because of my father.

One day in high school I went upstairs into their bedroom and went through my mother's night table drawer out of boredom. I cut class for the hundredth time and flounting my truancy by riding my bike around town and past my high school had lost its thrill. There was a styrofoam totem pole painted with garish poster paints one hazy, hot and humid day at the municipal pool. Underneath some magazines, sadly non-pornographic, was some notebook paper. It was a story I had written a few months after my maternal grandmother remarried after the passing of my maternal grandfather.

It was a sad story about a hitchhiker walking along a lonely highway at night. Suddenly he was illuminated by a car's headlights revealing him to be transparent. In the glare his bones and viscera were visible but quickly faded from sight leaving only the solitary twinkle in his eye which was the manifestation of his only heartwarming memory that bore his spirit through the decades only to vanish as well.

I carefully put the sheet back in its place overcome with sadness that I had written such a thing at a young age. Does it still exist? Doubtful since my mother always throws everything away and condemns anyone who saves anything for sentimental reasons as being mentally ill. At times I'm shocked that any photo albums remain in the house.