Across the years, through decades, scattered letters, poems, photographs, along with piles of journals, those journal writing books of different colors, textures, and sizes. There are loose leaf paper file binders in bright colors strewn about the bed, the floor of the apartment that is now the present while these artifacts are glimpses into the past of what once was to become who one is today.
Will anyone remember who I am? Do they know who I am or was? Does it even matter? It seems to matter to me today, in the past year people have transitioned from this world who meant something to me in one way or another, as inspiration, as mentors, as symbols of strength in the face of all a matter of challenges life presented to them.
I have been considering stories about my mother, I have a small note paper “diary” of her’s before she was my mother, she is a teenager writing about going to dances, describing boys she meets and her girl friends she attends the evenings with. There are other pages where Betty details the training she receives so that she can work as a phone operator for Bell Telephone in Camden.
With those memories of my mom, there flashes the thoughts of my father who I had spent much less time with because he worked shift work and was gone at 50 from heart attack, I was only 27-28. He never met grand children, or they the pleasure of his company. There are no letters or journals from dad, oh there is one letter from when he was at basic training which we were told he never was in the army, I have not come across that letter again. I have camera’s he used, there are photographs of us as kids and people he worked with as well as his family members, mother, step-sister and her family.
So in considering all those stories, life histories, in a flash I saw myself not being seen or known, with the lives of people being shorted, two deaths in a month of fellow recovery acquaintances, two or three people from a spiritual group we all once belong too. My x-wife who has had a return of her breast cancer and the death of my last long term partner a year ago; along with the fact I celebrated 28 years of sobriety and I will be 65 this year, morality seems to be nudging at my consciousness while I seem to be diddling my days away.
With the archives of letters, journals, folders, photographs, and blog pages, along with unreliable memories scattered about, I have stories to write, stories to tell that may enlighten, inform, maybe confound my days and nights with more questions than answers. Who knows where any of it will lead yet the beginning has begun. Join me as I piece together the scattered.