Why 'Happy Old Year' is my favorite visual essay on moving on - SCOUT
“The kid’s stubborn, she doesn’t even let go of things,” I overheard my grandmother complain about me one afternoon while she was looking at my old toys freshly released from our dusty storage room. Three days after, I was awarded first honor in kindergarten. I was just singing on our dining table on graduation day—with her even cheering for me—but does she hate me now? Many of my summers were spent in garage sales with my family. Makeshift signage that read “Garage Sale” and “All P50 below” paraded the front, while household tables were lined up to carry the weight of our old stuff. I grew up seeing strangers stopping by our gate to check out preloved clothes, still-functioning toys and half-read books, only to anticipate their next line: “We’ll come back.” Our dog would respond with an angry bark, probably a sign that he didn’t believe them. And most of them don’t. I don’t blame them—owning something from someone you don’t know is a major decision. Well, at least for me. Behind our “
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