I’ve decided to unearth myself.
For some, the physical evidence of their passing vanishes quickly, with a half-life of footprints in the sand. Sure, the photo albums, file cabinets, hard drives and progeny keep some things around—the typically retained—but most else falls away. This can be due to a Zen-like eschewing of the material, a parent with a quick into-the-trash trigger finger, or even a well-placed flood or fire.
For others, such as myself, the artifacts and debris from the past accumulate in nooks, crannies, boxes, drawers, closets and, it turns out, two rooms at my mom’s house in particular. The rooms hold almost everything I chose to retain or just happened not to throw away from pretty much the entire span of the Burgin years, one through thirty.
In this part of Boldwurg, I’ll do a little digging, record what I find. Mom would probably like to have use of those rooms back.