"I just can't get careless now." I said out loud to myself with nothing left but the basement walls to absorb my comment.
And that was what prevented me from tossing some of the last items stored away in a cabinet in what was now a very lonely room. It was an understanding that this wasn't my stuff...and therefore not my right to throw away without inspection. I don't know, maybe it is guilt that controls me. Some would say so. Some would laugh at me, I am sure. But I am glad that I listened to that inner message sent to my spirit. I packed it all into a clean box as carefully as I could. I would look at it later.
So 9 months later I am finally getting to it. A slow, snowy Sunday when I could stay home for an afternoon would allow me the time to peruse through the box carefully.
Oh the treasures I found. Flight records from when my dad was a crop duster. Cards from Box 124 and letters from a mama to her son as he had just returned home from overseas.
These were memories that made me smile. These were memories that made me weep. An instruction sheet on how to put a tricycle together brought the greatest tears. Who would ever guess? But it hit me just then...these items represented a life - two lives. It was the memories they intended to keep, some intentionally, some probably just ended up there. Regardless, everyone of them represented their life.
|Daddy's Sermon Notes|
And on this cold, dreary day after several wearing years of wondering how we got here, these items - carefully stored away - somehow breathed life back into me.
Yes, I suppose some would think me foolish. Obsessed even. I don't know. I don't really care. I suppose some would call it junk...I call it life.