In an effort to clean up, I've made a mess. "Things" (whatever they might be) have a way of moving in and claiming their own space. If that thing stays still and sits quietly, it isn't long before it belongs there. For years now, every time I opened the entry hall closet to take out or put away the vacuum cleaner (as I did yesterday), I've noted a spare motorcycle helmet back in the corner. It seemed well behaved, didn't cause any trouble and, after all, it had to live somewhere. Dave and his friends are coming up in a couple of weeks and I've been gathering stuff to be hauled away. That helmet has to go.
Head deep in the dark closet, I wondered what else had taken up rent-free residence. That's when I went down the rabbit hole. Accessories to long-gone vacuum cleaners, toys from when seventeen-year-old Taylor was a baby, an "Irish Only" parking sign that never got sent to my sister who no longer drives, and two large, heavy, unidentified boxes. It was like opening a time capsule. Loose photos, photograph and scrap albums, letters sent from Dave on sea duty and from the others, crayoned pictures, touching birthday and Mother's Day cards, my Girl Scout troop when I was ten, and journals. I flipped through cards and albums; the journals were my downfall. I have written almost-daily journals since my Kids actually were kids. It was early afternoon when I opened the first one and eleven at night when I quit reading and I haven't scratched the surface. I did condense some things in the first box, but haven't even opened the second. The helmet waits by the front door. If it sits there long enough, it will send in a change-of-address card.