Cold Fingers and Memories

 

               I’m certain that my insurance policy must be in the shed as I can’t find it in the house.  Too many things have been pushed aside.  I haven’t had the room to go through them until now but don’t wish to tote everything back into the house only to take it out again.  I can be more effective when it warms up – but not to scorching. 

          I can’t sort through papers while I’m wearing gloves and so my fingers are cold after having gone through two boxes – neither had any hints of what I thought should be present.  My fingers are so cold I couldn’t do anymore.  But I was having fun looking as I came across memories of handwriting, saving various assignments from Jaime’s school, an old photograph of a cousin and his wife.  The photograph isn’t labeled.  If I should die right away, no one in Oregon is going to know who it is.  Why am I saving it anyway?

          My fingers are numb as I attempt to type these words.  Smiling about things my mom had saved.  I should work on tossing it all.  For if we ever move again I won’t be toting it across the country.  My fingers aren’t frozen, but they haven’t warmed up still.