For fourteen years I have stared at a stack of some 20 to 35 boxes piled in my basement around our little kitchenette.
This last two weeks (Spring Break) I tackled them with a vengeance.
It was like wading through a leaf strewn forest and repeatedly springing giant silver-toothed bear traps, like the ones in cartoons.
But the experience was no joke.
I got an overview of my life to date. I saw how time had slipped away while I was busy doing “other things.”
Other than what? Dunno. Paying attention to my loved ones and writing spring to mind. Building a relationship with one particular soul that I was gifted the opportunity to know and raise, instead of what happened.
Many painful stabs of memories.
I find myself asking how much of the dark past needs to be remembered and documented? For posterity? For honesty?
Or can we just let it slide away with the tide of time? Does it go away then?