Pictures of the store’s history covered the walls of the hallway leading to the office. Black and white photos from 1989 of a group of people I never really got to know. The people my grandparents had bought the store from. People that died before I got to know them. Pictures of my nana and her best friend when they took over as owners, standing in front of the doors looking so proud. It looked different even then: cleaner, pristine paint, no greasy fingerprints on the windows. Pictures of my mom, a teenager, working at the cash register, with poofy dark hair, a red vest, and brown trousers, the phone to her ear, and a smile on her face. It was easier for her back then. She only worked the front desk as a cashier, but by the time she had me, she had become the manager, accountant, and everything in between. There were also pictures of me. So many pictures of me. Me as baby, being held by all the workers in the store. Me playing games in the kids’ area. Me showing my friends around the store. Me reading the books right off the shelves. The walls were a scrapbook of the store’s history, but they were also a painting of my childhood.
Pensworth 