How Did I Get Here, And Where Is The Next Turn?

Greetings and salutations to all who deem this worthy of your time...

Brought up Feb 22, 2012

My Blue Tin

I've been working on a story the past few days. It's about memories. I'm not sure how it's going to turn out. I have the beginning written of course. The end is pretty much put together in my head. Working toward that end is the real fun, because I never really know what will happen. I like to create characters, and turn them loose on the page to see what they do.

In this particular story, memories are stored in objects, literally. The main character has holes in her memory, and as she recovers these objects, the holes are filled. It could be a good story. If it isn't I blame the one who helped with the idea. (J/K, Punk!)

As I've worked on it, I have thought of things that hold memories for me. Pictures of my kids bring me to that place where they were innocent, funny little things that could melt my heart with a smile. Those smiles still do that for me, though they are grown now.

Pictures can trigger memories, but so can little keepsakes. So, I have my blue tin. It once held a fruit cake (Hush, Punk!) and has a scene of a sleigh ride on it's top. My late stepmother gave it to me, so the tin it's self has a memory all it's own.

I have little things stored in my tin that hold such memories of times long ago, and just looking at them can make me laugh out loud or get teary. A friend that died serving God in Africa still smiles her gorgeous smile. A sentiment long forgotten by the writer on a scrap of laminated cardboard that still touches my heart. Concert ticket stubs still hold the music of my crazy, mixed up college years. The cap from a bottle of beer, saved all these years brings to mind the sweet boy who bought it, my protector and 'safe' date because, well, let's just say I wasn't his type. There's also a tiny cartoon dragon that a friend drew for our college paper. She drew the one I have especially for me. A tiny blue bow brings to mind an Easter and a chocolate rabbit eaten so many years ago.

It's all junk to anyone else but me, of course. When I'm gone, my kids will probably just toss the tin, and it's contents. My tin is battered, the paint gone on the edges, but it holds stories that no one else knows. I have kept that tin for over 30 years, adding to it until it is so full, I had to start another. Kind of funny how that happens. The years pass, and the little collection just seemed to grow.

Memories are those precious things that can never be replaced. In them, you are young again. You hear laughter from voices now quiet. Feel the caress of a breeze, as it was on a certain day, in place changed by time and construction. You smell the roses long withered.

To me, the memories stored in that tin are more precious than gold. They are pieces of me, the girl I once was, and maybe, the true me that hides behind this old chick's face.

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Punk » 6 years ago

Good one. Sounds like a great story too! happy