Sort of …
Yesterday, we were cleaning the garage because I am an awful whore when it comes to cramming things in gigantic rubbermaid tubs, storing them in the garage, and never going back to sort out the items I have removed from household circulation.
With the move looming and my knowledge that there will be an entire basement at my storage-loving disposal, my slave driver husband is making me SORT. THROW THINGS OUT! WTF? It doesn’t help his case that temps are hovering at around a hundred degrees and that I find sweating to be intolerable, but I staggered on, mostly throwing things out (which was probably his intent) just to get the chore finished.
In one particular box, I pulled out several old photo albums containing pictures of my brother and I when we were very small. I packed them in a box and turned back to the bin.
At first, I only saw the portrait of my Mama in her long pink dress with the green velvet ribbon and I stood there for a moment, a little frozen, just thinking … but when I stuck my hand in to pull it out, I noticed what was laying to the side.
Sometimes I think my Mama or God or Dave Grohl is trying to send me a signal, a message through the universe or Joel O’ Steen, something to comfort or pursuade or calm. I got that feeling yesterday and I thought I might as well share it.
Are there really any accidents? Coincidences? I don’t know … but I like to think my Mama has the answers and I don’t know if she’s talking to me or you or if I’m fifty kinds of batshit crazy, but there it is …
I’ll be knitting a hat for my cat if anyone needs anything.
