As another year begins I can't help thinking about the past. I know it isn't supposed to be that way. We're supposed to ring in the new and turn our eyes to the future. Each New Years Eve when I was growing up, my dad took a snapshot of my brother and me holding a sign we'd made welcoming in the new year. He had us stand in the same place in front of the fireplace so we could compare photos and see how much we'd grown from year to year. It's been a long time since I could look forward to getting taller.

During my twenties I took to writing essays about my childhood adventures. Back then having a past to look back on was exciting. It was a novelty. And the future felt as infinite as ever. But our pasts get out of hand once they get started. They keep growing, even if we don't. Now I'm not so prone to dwell on childhood. It isn't so pleasant. I look back on my thirties, forties and fifties, once part of my limitless future, now the gray, insubstantial ashes of memory.

It's funny how fast the past accumulates. I have too much past. Sometimes I wish I could haul it all out to the curb. But, I guess the best we can do is try to ignore the clutter and look ahead.