I’ve been looking all morning for a picture album.
I keep thinking of places it should be.
Places I’ve already looked and need to re-look.
I can picture it.
It should be. Right there. But it isn’t.
There is no reason for it not to be on the shelf where all the other albums sit.
There is no reason to have taken it out of the house.
It’s personal.
It’s of no interest to anyone but me.
It’s a part of me.
My past. And it’s not gone.
But everywhere I look, the obvious and the ridiculous places, nothing.
It’s here.
Behind something.
Under something.
Behind the books.
Under the bed.
I found other things
that sidetracked me.
Took me down other roads, more recently traveled.
And here it is, afternoon.
Found:
notebooks, books, stacks of pictures, really cool scissors,
and my dictionary, given on my 19th birthday.
Random pieces of me.
Found things and the thing I haven’t
tell a story of recent and distant past.
It’s all here. Somewhere. I just have to find it.
This week I celebrate what I found and knowing the rest will be.
Thank you, Ruth, for a place to share our lives. All the parts. Even the missing pieces. Read more celebrations here.
To Read To Write To Be 