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For at least another year, that shoebox continued to live under my bed amongst the dust bunnies and tumbleweed of cat hairs. It was always just on the edge of my awareness. It was fine with me but not with Rose, my determined female cat. She decided to give in to her nesting instincts, and burrow her way into the bottom of the box springs. I ignored her. Picked up the pieces of lining that she’d toss out in her search for the perfect accommodations. She worked around the box.  It was when she started in on the mattress that I had to act. Box springs on floor. Miffed Cat. Shoebox exposed.

Words, Words, Words

When I opened the resurrected shoebox, and saw the neat pile of letters inside, I had a surprising appreciation of the mere fact that I, Annie Eyerman, had written all those words. There were hundreds, maybe thousands, of them in this box. I had put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard and stamps on envelopes. Paper-proof of my journey. Memories good or bad they were here. And Mom’s diligence about saving all of her correspondence no matter who sent it gave it all back to me. Wow.

Do moms now save emails that their kids send them on their European jaunts? Tweats preserved? Facebook comments treasured?

Who knows? But I now had my words, my memories to do with whatever I wanted.

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