As I sat cross-legged on the dusty, splintered attic floor, emptying and sorting through each box, I became lost in a time warp. The floor was my canvas, I was the artist, and the assorted articles that encircled me in various, colors, shapes and textures, were the medium that portrayed my life.
I am in awe of their tchotchke-free homes, but I could never be them. Reminders of my past--old letters, the kids' artwork, vacation souvenirs and the bad poetry of my angst-ridden teen years -- all make me smile.
Once I thought all those trinkets would remind me of shared, carefree days. Now they just remind me that I need to dust.
It's nice to see I'm not the only one who has some utterly kitsch crap sitting around the house. Thank you for dusting off your souvenirs, photograph...