I’ve been finalizing a draft of my memoir manuscript—version eleventy-nine thousand or so—and I needed to clarify some dates and facts. So, this morning, I dragged down a blue-lidded bin from the attic.
I wanted Matt’s report cards and school work from third grade, when he was eight. That was the year his behavior and personality began to change.
I write in my manuscript, “It was the start of the end of the old Matthew.”
The new Matt was different. The new Matt had a brain tumor, but we wouldn’t know that for another three years.
I found what I wanted in the bin, along with memorabilia that sent memories swirling through my head like dandelion seeds.
For example, these teddy bear paw print shoes. The shoes say to me “innocence.” Not only because Matt was not even two when he wore them, but because we had no idea what lay ahead.
Do we ever know?
Today’s another innocent day. I don’t know what tomorrow will hold, so I am grateful for the sun and warm breeze and cold ice tea.
I’m grateful for a laptop and blue-lidded bin and memories that hold my story, and for you with whom I share it.
I’m grateful that all my loved ones have sturdy shoes to support them on their life’s journey.
And I’m so grateful for our new Matt, now 31. I can’t imagine a better version.