Growing up, my family had one of those old octagon shaped end tables, and I remember the lamp that sat on it. It was gold plated with a pale blue shade. It had a crack in the liner, through which you could see straight to the bulb. I pierced my wrist at this table, under this lamp, with the backside of a ladybug earring. I was so young that both my parents were there to comfort me as I realized for the very first time that actions had consequences.

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Now that I’m getting older, I find myself searching for that end table. Scouring the internet for one that looks just like it, makes the same clackity sound when you open the hinges on it’s little door. As if whatever table I did buy would appear on my step, still housing the family photo album inside. And I am searching for that lamp. And I am searching for the porcelain toilet that same shade of blue. I broke the tank lid on it when I was 10. And the pale pink curtains my grandmother sewed from bed sheets. I am looking for a phone with a 8 ft cord that my mother winds around her body as she fries pork chops in the kitchen.

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The cruelest thing about life is that it keeps moving forward.