Going Inkless

     We live in a world of ghosts.  I've seen them.  One minute, I'll be driving along, and suddenly, there's a younger me pushing the stroller and walking into town on some errand.  It happens in a flash, and then it's gone, faded back into the past.  These spots are all over the area.  Every place I've been has a bit of me attached, and these bits reappear in a flash when I pass a point with a strong impression.  Sure, they're only memories, but it always strikes me odd how vivid they can be, especially when they are the most ordinary moments.  We all expect to remember the big things- a catastrophe, love at first sight, a wedding or the birth of a child.  All these things leave their ghosts because we recognize their importance and press them into our minds for later, or else the emotion is strong enough to burn them in without thought.  But it's funny how some absolutely inconsequential pieces etch themselves on your memory...

     There is buried treasure in my house.  It lies in cardboard boxes and plastic bags deep within the basement, deposited there when I moved in nearly 20 years ago and layered over with newer boxes and bags.  The contents of these containers vary, sometimes notes or photographs, sometimes old letters or artifacts from my childhood- the kinds of things you don't just throw away.  As a collection, it's nowhere near complete.  There was more than enough chaos in my life before I came to rest here to ensure that pieces were lost along the way.  You may not be able to throw these sacred relics away, but you have to be prepared to accept that they will drift out of reach of their own accord.  And I have been prepared for that fact of life for some time now.  Long ago, I had resolved myself to the loss of my daughter's baby picture, the one taken at the hospital when she was only hours old.  It was only a thing, just a paper image of a m...

     The pot of horrors would be bubbling on the stove all morning, neck and giblets, looking like a witches' cauldron leftover from Halloween.  Giblets.  It was a comical, almost friendly name, no doubt invented to deceive us into thinking they might not be as terrible a concept for food.  That bubbling pot meant gravy would be eaten at your own risk, but it would be made as Grandma always had, and her mother before her, and before that, in the days when no food was wasted however unappetizing.      There was a table full of vegetables to chop for stuffing, mashed potatoes, and other side dishes, not to mention a tray to snack on that we didn't bother to call crudité.  Thanksgiving was bigger than everyday, more special, but it was humble, too.  We always helped in the kitchen.  Before the meal preparation was more fun than dish washing after.  I suppose it always is, but when the holiday means more than the usual eight...

One of the advantages of my work is that I get to see what people are reading.  In the course of handling requests, I get a feel for what's trendy at a certain time, at least among readers in my area.  I'm exposed to new ideas and reminded of old ones I may not currently be considering.  There is not, contrary to what some may think, any time for reading while working in the library.  However, you do get a dose of serendipitous mental stimulation through titles, blurbs or cover art as the books pass through your hands.  A few days ago, a group of Christmas craft books crossed my desk, including one that was solely about holiday decorations made from felt.  Seeing the cheery but simple ornaments displayed on the cover reminded me of my daughter's first Christmas. She was a day short of one month old then.  My first husband and I were young parents, scraping to get by on the type of salary being young affords.  We were living in a tiny ramshackle ...

Have you ever needed to move in a hurry - packed your boxes with only the most general sense of order, or worse yet, completely randomly? You may have started with the best intentions, but by the time you get where you're going, you end up unpacking a box that yields both toilet paper and forks. It made sense when it went in there. It might take weeks to find something you can't live without, but you quickly locate a large supply of nuts and bolts to furniture you no longer own. Sometimes, a cherished possession ends up lost forever. You'll always have a tiny frail hope that it will turn up one day (though you may have searched every box,) but you sadly have to content yourself with just the memory of it. Welcome to my mind. The attic of my mind is crammed full of boxes. Boxes on top of boxes. Some of their cardboard sides bulge out to accomodate the bulkier thoughts and memories. Some sag with the weight of them. There are new boxes here, supported by old musty ones patche...