A Memory Shared is a Memory Enjoyed

Last week I said I’d start downsizing tomorrow. The old cliché “Tomorrow never comes” seemed to lurk in the back of my mind—even when I typed that sentence. Only now it must be here. I’ve pulled out and uncovered more stuff than I knew I owned.

In 2008 I said, “Hon, you’ve got to move me to Oregon before you die. I won’t be able to manage this house.” A few weeks later we listed our house and husband set to downsizing.

I’m sure men that men by nature aren’t as emotionally attached to things as women. Soon after the house listed I searched for something I’d stored in the basement. That’s when I discovered husband had hauled truck loads of my treasures to the Salvation Army.  

“You said we needed to get rid of stuff,” he said. “Looked like junk to me. You certainly can’t take it to heaven with you.” His being right and his winsome grin lessened the tension. 

Wish husband were here. We could tackle a few memories and pitch them. I can just see the evening slide by.   

“Oh, Hon, do you remember when you sent me this card?” We’d read the card, smile and then talk about what happened that year and then pitch the card in the green garbage bag. 

When we pulled out the photo albums—now falling apart because of the glue gave out—we’d start at the beginning.

Talk about marriage. Our first dinky apartment. The first house we bought. When we found pictures of Husband, Me and our first daughter, we laugh about how we scrounged enough change to buy just one ice cream cone—a little bit for each of us.

“We didn’t have much but love back then,” husband would say and kiss me.

By the time midnight rolled around we might have emptied one tiny corner of a closet.

Well husband isn’t here and tomorrow has come—it’s time to do more than remember.