My huge bag

I have one of those Stop and Shop bags--the really big ones you buy to be self-righteous and not use plastic or paper--absolutely full of typed (or printed out pages) of stuff I've written.

I can't even approach it. It is terrifying to me. What might I find in it? Where did it come from? Why do I have it?

I pull out a page at a time and remember it not.

This is stuff I poured over, cared about, stuff that mattered to me. And I have no idea what it is and am too intimidated to pour it all out and sort it out and ponder who I was when I wrote all that. There must be 500 pages of writing in that bag.

And I can't bring myself to dump it our and sort through it.

I don't know why.

I'll ponder that and let you know what's there.

I promise, just because that will make me do it.

But not until we come back from Oak Island a week from Saturday...and not that day surely.