I’ve just spent the past several months in a wormhole of dizzying deadlines. Call it serendipitous, or by the hand and divine interests of the Creative Director of our lives, pages of story are tacked to all the walls of that underground place.
There is the very high word count from the sharing of stories of life and loss by five families featured in a client magazine.
There is the Mount Everest emotional and physical cost of a move and sizing down by loved ones as they opened the trunk of their lives to keep or part with storied treasure. New, beautiful walls couldn’t stretch enough to make it fit.
We gave a table we’re quite fond of to our kids. You could dance on that table. They love and needed it. Our story will continue around it. A pet will one day chew on the foot. A miniature boy will dint it with a toy truck. A little girl leaning in from a chair on her tiny knees will try to color inside lines.
The pages of an important story are beginning to blur now like water running over ink for J.’s dad. Names and memories come on some days with surprising clarity. Others bring only an echo of the past.
Memory box. Letters. Fading photos. The gifting of hard-earned and beloved pieces, collectibles and art. Finding a software program to illustrate a tot story about the adventures of our circus pup. A long-running narrative with a friend in first-light texts. Conversation around a table. Find a way to keep and pass your story.
