Memories are weird things. You can get wrapped up in them. Lost in them. You can forget them, or seemingly forget them, and you can share them.

Part of the cleaning, packing and all that for the move brings back a lot of memories. I had one large box of just “scrapbook later” things. Letters, cards, movie ticket stubs, programs, etc. The flotsome and jetsome of life. Things I’ve forgotten, and things I can never forget all in one box. It’s surreal and almost impossible to really get through. I’ve now thrown most of it into a smaller box. Pictures of happy couples that are now divorced, memories from people now gone, and a picture of me in a jacket I lost at Chipotle. Sighs.  I really liked that jacket.

I’m glad I’ve kept these things, most of them are memories that I don’t recall often. It’s almost as if they were another life. Someone else’s life lived. Things remind us they really happened. We were there and it left it’s mark. Even if we don’t see the bruises.

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