Tucked Inside A Tuesday

I think the name 'Hopscotch and Heels' doesn't fit my writings anymore. I started this writing journey when the kids were little and I was balancing being the ever-present Mom, while trying to maintain some sense of who I was, Hopscotch and Heels was created to show the juxtaposition between the dirty work of being a mom, both mentally and physically, and the sense of self, with trying to put the word 'glamorous' in front of the title of Mom. I was trying to wear a crowd while dripping in spaghetti sauce and hot football fields and horse barns. My crown resembeled more of a chauffeur's hat than anything that looked like a queen. As the years have passed I have dug the crown out from the back of some dusty closet and it still kinda fits...kinda. SO my writings have changed over the years. They have become more 'life' centered as we have empty-nested, and grandma'd, and widowed. The new blog name that will be out next week is Tucked Inside A Tuesday. 

As we get older (gulp) we start seeing the reality of life...it ends. Grandparents and parents are the hot topic on Facebook lately. It's our age! Our own parents are 'aging out'. More and more of us are having the first Father's Days and Mother's Days as 'orphans'. 

Tucked Inside a Tuesday. Life happens when you least expect it... sometimes on a Tuesday...randomly...when you're doing something else. Not just dying. Change. A spontaneous event can change your entire trajectory of where you thought you were going...sometimes it's for the better and sometimes, well, not. 

As I moved over the last month, I have had a LOT of 'unexepected encounters' with my past. I have discovered so many memories. As I place my items in their new home, I can't help but feel like a packrat. Where do I put all this stuff...and how do I ever part with it? I AM the keeper of the family memories. I didn't sign up for this role. I think I just 'had the space'. It's everywhere. I come from (apparently) a long line of people who love to hold on to items that make a memory. I am sure that hoarders feel this way about, well, everything. I think I can add 'Hoarder' to my resume bio. My poor children will go through my stuff one day and curse me that I left them with all this stuff. Some of the memories aren't mine. I have inherited my Aunt's and my Dad's memories. I am sure I will figure out who some of these people in these albumns are some day...or not. But, as I have space in my garage and a random extra bedroom closet, these memories will live so that someday, perhaps a random Tuesday, I want to visit them again.

There are always leftovers with love. No matter how final the goodbye, something stays behind: 

a look, a laugh, photo, a moment that clings to the edges of time. Love doesn’t vanish. It scatters itself in the spaces we once shared. You’ll find it later, folded into the quiet, tucked inside a Tuesday. The leftovers. Almost as if they are saying, "Here. I’ve loved you. Keep the leftovers. Warm them when you need to remember".