Those heady years. I didn’t know about meats or that different meats require different attention, even from the same animal. Nobody knew the secrets of leeks, or that sand might at all be a consideration with respect to vegetables. I was fearless and often had diet soda on hand. A magnum of bargain shiraz was, okay, never the height of refinement, but it didn’t seem as far away then as it feels since. There were cigarettes indoors and overflowing ashtrays. And not just at my house. It was carefree. I forgot.

When I got home from my pick-up game, my brother was sitting on the stoop. He was wearing this holey Flintstones t-shirt that everyone hates and the bad orange hat with a beer logo on it. Most of us hated that even more. As I crossed the street from the bus stop he smiled – maybe he had just told himself a joke, maybe, but not definitely, it was at my expense. I tried to look cool. I dribbled the ball as I walked and it only got away from me once. Well, twice. But I don’t think he saw the second time, so I was pretty happy with that.

There’s this picture of my family. We’re all on an airplane probably going to the Philippines. I can’t be more than a few months old. A year, tops. I’m propped up in a bassinet attached to the bulkhead. It seems dangerous, actually. My brothers, at the time 8 or 9 and 9 or 10, are making funny faces while being held as still as possible by our parents. They’re mid-squirm; they don’t want to be still. My parents don’t seem at all annoyed. They look happy and sort of smug. It’s impossible to tell how far along we are on that endless flight. Could be before takeoff. Could be 10 hours in. I can’t imagine there’d be no trace of aggravation in my parents’ faces, though, if we were that far in.

Anyway, even though I am basically an infant, I’m the only person in the picture who’s looking at the camera. I think that is significant in some way.