Diary Entry - Photos on the Wall

In the bottom drawer of the little desk where I did my homework growing up, there was a small box. I'd almost forgotten about it until I recently started cleaning out the desk. Back in high school, my bedroom wall was plastered with photos.
 
The box, as it turned out, was filled with those very photos. As I leafed through them, I began to realize that they were like evidence of a life that had been fully lived. Each photo carried memories of a specific time or friendship.
 
Some were from our vacations at the Gulf during my teenage years. In those pictures, my legs looked like pretzel sticks. I used to get teased by boys about being so skinny. It was astonishing now to think how those legs managed to support me. However, being skinny had its advantages; I was quite fast. I remember sprinting toward the ocean and letting the water drag me in deeper, the bitter taste of saltwater splashing on my face.
 
At the bottom of the stack of photos, there was one a boyfriend had taken of me. It reminded me that when we were together, it felt like the faces in those photos were looking on. I can still remember the moment I realized that what we were doing was perfectly natural, and I had the sense that every face in the photos was probably looking on approvingly.