Introspective

I read the words and even touched them, almost as if they were raised cursive and not just ink on paper.  I wonder at the lost art of letter writing, as I read mostly trivial items from years ago that stir emotions in me.  Letters that were written to me at the beginning of my adult life; toward the end of hers.  Letters that I thought lost.   

Found among video discs and photographs.  On a whim, for a distraction for her—I put a random disc in. Transported to 2009 and July.  Summer and children that were different/same.  His voice, a child’s voice.  I had forgotten it.

Again a random disc.  Still 2009, but earlier.  February and his birthday party.  Webkinz were his obsession then.  He is clutching them, while she babbles and toddles around the living room table.  He places them on the table, reciting the names to me.  I had forgotten, but I am reminded.  Some of his mannerisms—they are still present in his future.  Some of what they were/are is still here/there.

I time travelled this weekend.

It was bittersweet.