It has been dreary here for weeks, raining most of the time and humid the rest.  It has been claustrophobic.  The time change added insult to soggy injury and this morning instead of getting up and running in the pouring rain … again … I recognized that this was the last weekend between now and 2016 that I didn’t have a major plan.

Time to move furniture.

The bedroom revision has been rolling around in my mind for years.  About six months ago I realized that the “Get This Shit Done” fairy was actually me and Dave.  I’ve picked stuff out and moved it around and he has been dutifully lifting whatever random thing I needed him to.

One of the things that had become (sort of) invisible to me was the large flat cardboard moving box we brought back from LLV 2.5 years ago.  I popped it open this morning and the memories of the 26 year old I actually was smiled back at me.

While I was not dancing until dawn at 26 I was gleefully buying 16×24 picture frames with collage mats in them.  I remember being that woman and knowing that even as things changed the days and memories I was capturing deserved special treatment.  The collages (two) of the first 5 or so years with John, including a copy of the wedding invitation.  That includes one of the 5 best pictures ever taken of me.  The stacked photos of the manic joy of being alive while filled with grief and laughing big and wild with the Friday Friends that I don’t know anymore.

Twenty six year old me was right, and she did a great job with the pictures.  They tell stories that I don’t remember all the time and we were all so beautiful and willing.  Still, I don’t have infinite wall space, that was 15 years ago, and I don’t know most of those people anymore.  So I smiled and lingered but the work of the day calls and I smiled some more while I pushed them (lovingly) under the bed.

They are who I was, what made me who I am, and I need the wall space for where I am going – even when I don’t know where that is.