Memory Box Veronica Puig ’28 My house is like a memory box. The walls have been my archivists, holding every fragment of who I’ve been. A baby, taking her first steps across the marble floor I still walk on. A dancer, pirouetting through the halls on point shoes. A pianist, losing herself on weekends as her fingers drifted across the keys, the music rippling through the rooms. The pool where I learned to swim and soaked up the rays of sunlight. The winding staircase I sprinted down on Christmas mornings. The backyard where, when Covid hit, my mother and I took up yoga. 50
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