Everyone’s walking around with a whole novel in their head, and nobody asks for chapter one.

Rummaging through the garage as I am decluttering, I have stumbled upon forgotten memories. It’s like archeology but with more dust and emotion.

Excavating our past, my daughters, my husband, and my parents. All the stuff I thought was important, but I can’t remember why!

I found my first chapter in the photos and papers my parents kept.

Why did they keep it? They kept it because it was mine. That’s all. No grand reason—just a quiet, stubborn faith that someday we’d find it, or they would want to look back on themselves, or leave it for us. And here I am sifting through it all.

Standing here looking at myself at age 3 sitting on a table in the backyard. Nice picture, but what’s the story behind it? A tiny version of me, but I remember asking Mom why this picture was taken. She said, “The neighbor next door loved combing your hair and dressing you up.” Looking at it now, I am back there. I am back there.

With every bit of artifact I find, I’m back there. Photos, music sheets, the watches he never let go of, as time itself got stuck in the pockets.