The Lost Things

I have two trunks in my bedroom where I stash things that are important to me–a stack of my journals going back thirty-five years; cards and artwork from my kids; a faded rose from when my son was in my brother’s wedding.   I have stacks of letters tied in yellow ribbon; my grandparents’ wedding license; my great-grandfather’s teacher’s license; report cards from the early nineteen hundreds.  My passport’s in there, too, the one I thought I’d lost.
Because things do get lost in trunks. 

And that’s the beauty of it all; finding memories you thought were long gone. 

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Tattooed

Well, I’m happy to report that I’m recovering nicely from my recent surgery. 

What’s that you say?  You didn’t know I had surgery?

That’s OK.

It came as a bit of a shock to me, too.

* * *

A couple of weeks ago, I willingly subjected myself to an eyebrow wax.  The technician led me to the back, plopped me in a chair, threw a dirty plastic gown around my shoulders and shoved my head into one of those horrible cutout sinks.  She painted hot honey above and below my eyebrows; smoothed industrial-strength tape on top and gave a mighty yank.

I couldn’t help it: I swallowed hard to hold back my yelp.

The technician laughed and smoothed more tape on my eyebrow.  “I’ve had seven tattoos, but I still can’t get used to having my eyebrows waxed.”

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