Numbers

I have a stack of calendars in my attic, laid in a pile between the broken grandfather clock and the box of dog-eared photographs. There's a calendar for every year of my life.

They're scattered with numbers that reflect my image. My whole life is here, hidden between ones and fours and nines. Some parts of it I remember, but others are just like the 12th of August 1989. I did something on that day - I must have done, I was alive - but I don't know what. I don't even remember what the weather was like.

They say people are the sum of their past experiences. That's why I keep the calendars; so that when I die they can just take them down from the attic and add up all the dates into one big number, and that'll be me, right there.

Hopefully someone will take it and remember it and one day add me to some numbers of their own.