I’m avoiding work right now – coffee tastes better while blogging.  It’s a fact.

I unpacked several boxes last night and ended up reminiscing for hours while watching Grey Gardens.  Something about the manic laughter in the background seemed fitting.  I felt a little crazy myself, sorting photos and reading old letters.  I found the book of poetry Kate wrote and bound for me to keep (what a treasured gift I had kept wrapped up in a water-tight storage box all these years).  

While at coffee with Kate the other day, she mentioned Laura’s dishware.  A tour-guide at the Ingalls house had said, “If Laura had known what these would eventually be worth, she never would have used them.”  But my smart friend knew otherwise.  What’s the point of holding on to something so tightly that you have never the opportunity to appreciate it? 

That wisdom applies to us as well.

So, out of the box came the treasured book of poems, old photographs, the precious albums.  A single blue glass left from our wedding day toast (the other broke years ago), is atop my desk awaiting display.  Watercolor paintings and the pen and ink drawing Chris made for me when we were in school together, love notes, and letters from friends, newspapers and term papers, and my own writing whispering faint echos from a life so long ago departed.  

I found my favorite photograph of Bill and it made my heart leap to see it.  I didn’t expect to see him so youthful with the sunlight hitting just so.  I had asked him to step into the light – he was so proud and it showed beautifully.  I know we’re not supposed to be prideful, but when someone is inherently kind, as was Billy, a little pride is worth preserving.  

I hesitate to pluck any of these items from the boxes, but know it is better to see them, to reminisce with them, for each will decay at their own pace either in the open air, or hidden away in storage.  I would rather, in my limited time here, be inclined to share and enjoy these articles, than worry about fading ink.  For we all fade in time, but are held fast not as ink on paper, but as a memory cast eternally within.