I mentioned on Twitter that I was attacking my paper clutter. We’ve all had that section of our home where paper finds its niche. It just keeps accumulating until you scream, “I just can’t take it anymore!” and start shredding and tearing up paper with reckless abandon.
In the midst of my paper de-cluttering, I came across old bank statements. These purchases, bold in black and white, tell a story. This particular statement told of a couple who just purchased their first home. And look! They needed a new lamp for the master bedroom because there wasn’t enough artificial light. Oh, and look at all the paint purchased for the living and dining rooms… where this couple spent the whole weekend painting, getting it just right.
The blur of numbers and letters makes me momentarily sad. That house with our blood, sweat, and tears belongs to someone else now. Someone who will continue to cherish it, make it their own, and have that dash of happy when they walk through the front door.
Different statements, repetitive in color, begin to weave a different story. Images merge imperceptibly and now the picture is clear. Restaurants, dining establishments… grocery stores? What’s the date again? Ahhh… pregnancy cravings. I smile in recognition. Crispy chicken salads that had to be from Denny’s and nowhere else. Cookies ‘n cream ice cream, when only Dryer’s brand will do.
These pieces of paper, so clinical on the surface, tell stories. Stories only I can tell. They remind me of where I have been and what I have been through. The sheer folly of some of the purchases may make others cringe. But for a brief moment, they served as a reminder of another time. A reminder that life evolves, and that there are stories still to be told.