where the writers are
Time Machine

We went on a day trip to spend a little time with my folks yesterday. It was a chance for my oldest child to see his grandparents for the first time since Winter Break.

My parents were in the mood to share some terrific stories from the past. My Dad recalled the time he suffered a minor injury while on leave from the Navy. The story was fascinating, but what I found amazing was my Mother's disclosure of events that happened during the same time. She had never revealed her difficult time living with her in-laws to anyone.

Later we discovered a bin of photos my Mom had received from her Mother's photo albums. As I looked through the pictures I was transported back in time. 

There were pictures of our little home in Maryland. When we had last talked about our old home, I realized that the images of the house were beginning to fade in my memory. I used to remember every detail, but like an old photo, the images were becoming faint. 

As we talked about the photos, the neighborhood and the house became alive again. I was young again, living with my Mommy and Daddy in the house on the hill. I left that evening wrapped in those warm memories.

 

 

At home, as we settled down to our evening routines, my oldest curled up beside me on the sofa. He has not cuddled up to me since he entered high school. As I rubbed his back and shoulders, I was transported back in time once more. I was the Mommy offering love and comfort to my own baby.

The most amazing time machine is within our own precious memories.