There are faces on my refrigerator with smiling eyes,
like windows into my past.

My fridge can reverse death.

Photographic evidence:
my 60-year-old grandfather,
my 6-year-old self,
16-year-old brother ,
with his long curly hair that was "in" at the time.

My refrigerator has a better memory than me sometimes,
because unlike the freezer door suggests,
I do not recollect ever going to California.

What my fridge forgets:
all the frowns that weren’t photogenic,
all of the arguments with my parents,
the times the drugs made me look like a stranger.

We’ve had the same refrigerator for 17 years,
and following my father's hoarding mentality,
we will use it
until it dies.

An entire lifetime pictured amongst pots, pans, pickles, and plated leftovers.

When guests visit for the first time they gawk
at my youthful beardless self;
my innocent unknowing self.
They always say
“my, you’ve aged
well”
or they say
“my, you've grown up.”

But in reality,
all I’ve done
is kept on living,

while the fridge is the only evidence of my aging.