You keep the light on inside the cold box now. When I was you, I used to open it just to feel the wind and see what glowed in there. You still do it too! I watched you. You stood with the door open and looked and looked, even though you already knew what was inside. That is exactly what I do. I thought grown-ups had a plan for the cold box. You don't. You just hope something new appeared.
There are pictures on the front, stuck under little magnets. A wedding. A dog. A kid with no front teeth. You touch the toothless kid's picture sometimes when you walk past, real quick, like you don't want anyone to see.
But where are the good drinks? The ones with the colors? There's a lot of green stuff in bags. You bought green stuff on purpose. Weird.
Up top there's a tub of ice cream, way in the back, behind the boring things. I found it. You hide it from yourself so you'll forget, but you never forget, do you.
I have to ask you something. When the door shuts, does the light really turn off? You said you'd figure that out someday. Someday when you were big.
You're big now.
Did you ever check?