A friend told me she calls the process of sifting and sorting through old boxes of stuff “Time Travel”. How perfect is that?
The first few boxes were no big deal, I felt like a pirate digging up buried treasure. But then I got sucked in like the characters in books or movies who swirl about through some psychedelic portal and tumble out into the destination all disheveled and out of sorts.
As I sat on an old footstool in the garage hunkered over a box of old family photos this weekend, I heard a strange voice through the fog. I looked up to see a man who looked familiar. He was obviously my husband (I had come across the wedding photo with the two of us in it) but it seemed so entirely out of place for him to be asking if I was coming to dinner. Then, he called out to the boys to come in, too. I swear my first thought was–I have children?
I unearthed myself from the garage and have since learned to take those boxes one at a time, but I’d say Madeleine L’Engle and Michael J. Fox were dead on about time travel–it may be a crazy ride at first, but it’s kind of fun after you get the hang of it.