"Where are the snows of yesteryear?"
-- Francois Villon
I spent a couple of hours sorting through mounds of photos (and some keepsakes) this evening. Thirty-four years of family snapshots, plus all of my parents' pictures and keepsakes. It didn't quite fit in ten
storage boxes. Oy.
And all it did was make me depressed. Where are the little boy and girl that used to live with that hip young married couple (hey, we were hip once)? Where are those other kids in all those churches I took camping and taught the faith to? What happened to all those years? Where did they go?
Up until recently, I viewed the past (and its artifacts) as a packrat's hoard. It was all mine, and I knew where every bit of it was. When I moved on from Stage A to Stage B, I didn't feel like I was leaving anything behind, I was just adding to my store of life. I hugged all this stuff
to my heart, and felt the richer for it. Now, I look at it all, and I feel so empty. The days, the kids, the achievements are all in the past, and there is just this detritus, however cool or precious, left over.
It haunts me.