My scrapbook is thick with frayed pages, old photographs,
fading memories and smudges of little fingers.
Its age insists upon gentle handling.
Currently, it sits quietly between John Grisham and George Orwell, even
though 1984 is a long time past.
Holding the scrapbook seems to stir more emotions than
even viewing each page. Pages are
individual events, while compiling the book itself was a collective
activity. We were gathered together, bits and
fragments scattered about, glue and Scotch tape sticking to everything, while
the Beatles sang Yesterday.
1 comment:
Wow - I'm thinking that mine went into a garage sale a very long time ago.
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