Grandma’s closet, brown boxes 

are stacked from old 

to new. I grab the
the first. The quaintest, not 

living long enough to grow 

more than the one beneath. Sepia 

birthday party, peeling edges, barely in 

color, slips to the linoleum. ​Don’t
cry over spilled memory.​ But this 

was different. It was easy to grasp 

the glossy grins of my youth and
the matte imagery that made me. But 

when I arrived in time’s moment to 

the largest, I was not so lucky. 

Strangers’ faces flooded through my hands. I’m
a stranger. I am a stranger to
my own lineage. This brave box was
older. Wizened, with weaker walls from upholding 

others. ​Placed there first. Most time to 

forget.​ The contents, eyes I don’t 

recognize. Bodies, black and white, buried 

in cardboard here. The contents: buried 

under a familiar substance, more natural. 

Sometimes images are buried with 

the body. Do they last
long? Do they fade? Decay. 

The memories, the faces 

I neglect but crave 

to know    are    in 

  someone’s  mind, 

but   not 

          in

           mine. 

TaNia Donatto is a poet from Southeast Texas and a current undergraduate student at Stanford University. She intends on majoring in engineering but has a deep love for poetry. Her other interests include dance, theater, learning from people’s stories, and accessibility in education. She also has work in or forthcoming in Neuro Logical, Capsule Stories, and 433 Magazine. TaNia can be found on Instagram and Twitter @taniadonatto_ .