I opened a red floral box of photos, lid broken on the short side. Crammed overly full; disorderly and chaotic. So out of place for the mother who vacuumed twice a day. I remember keeping the box under my bed after she died. I would take it out and explore its mysteries, then tuck it away, safely again.

I retired from gymnastics 25 years go (I say retired, though the language that was used and sticks in my craw is “quit”). It was the 1990s, and the Karolis were in power.