BOXES

I have several boxes in my closet, filled with a plethora of personal history. I am not really sure what actually is housed in these cardboard mysteries, but, judging by the box that I filled today, I would say it is most likely a hodgepodge of items that I find just too dear to actually put in the give away bin or to toss in the trash. Mind you, I schlepped six stretchy plastic bags of junk deemed unworthy of historical significance out to the raccoon housing unit known as our trash bin. But I am still left with the newest addition to the collection that resides on the top shelves of my newly cleaned out closet. Every so often, I'll take down one of the boxes and paw through it, wondering why on earth I kept this or that... it must have been important that I hang on to it, so it dutifully goes back into the box until my curiosity gets the better of me next time around. I've discovered faded pictures of people I don't remember, vacations someone else took and thought I'd love to see pictures of, and old kodachrome photos of what can only be family members I've never met. There are papers written in a college course that got a passing grade, a letter with a lock of what I am guessing is my grandmother's hair (still red after one hundred years), a notebook filled with my life experiences like a script for a bad made for TV movie. I found four, count them, four empty binders and a handful of wirebound, college-ruled notebooks. Back-to-schoolers could have a field day in my closet.

It makes me wonder where all this very important stuff comes from. Dog-eared books collected over the years that I simply will not part with. Framed pictures of family members that can't be hung up on the wall, yet I can't seem to find the time to put them in a proper frame so they can be displayed. Leather-bound journals filled with random notes and shopping lists. Crayons. Office supplies. All items I, at some point in a cleaning frenzy, decided were meaningful enough to keep in my life for whatever future reason I could possibly think of. I suppose I am lucky. I've made it to this second half of my life with only three boxes of stuff to show for it. I am sure, at some point in the future, I will determine that the things in those boxes might not be worth keeping afterall. But, until then, they will remain safely ensconced on the top shelf of my closet. Waiting to be discovered, like an ancient end to a magnificent treasure hunt in some future adventure.