Ignore the five-year-old version of me on the left, and ignore my freaking perfect cousin Cindy on the right.
Focus your attention instead on the storage unit in the background.
Mom left the marriage with nothing but that storage unit and our clothes. She packed it up and drove back to Saint Louis. That storage unit followed us to every apartment, condo, and house.
When Mom grew bored and wanted new furniture, we would take apart the storage unit and re-configure it -- move the drop-leaf desk from the center to the right side, then swap the side the drawers were on, etc.
Even if she had had fully-functioning arms she couldn't reach the top of it to dust it, and dust bothered David's asthma, so dusting the storage unit was always my job. Only, you couldn't just dust it. Every inch had to be massaged with the Lemon Pledge. The oil, not the spray stuff, no, that would be too easy.
It felt like it took hours rubbing the oil over every inch of that thing. For a while I had a reprieve because I couldn't get to the top; only Dad could reach the top. Then I grew tall enough and had to oil up the whole thing.
I got rid of Mom's storage unit when she died.
The other night I was watching Better Things and I saw that the therapist played by Matthew Broderick has been applying Lemon Pledge to his storage unit for fifty years now. It was odd to see it there.