Buried Treasure.

Sunday I arrived in the pirate’s cove.  Ok, my pervy friends, not that cove. This would be the one with her secret treasure.  Yeah, sorry, I’m not making it any better am I?

 

Ok, fine. When you’re done giggling, I’ll continue.

 

Now?

 

How bout now?

 

Ok, I’m trudging on.  It’s what I do when I’m buried under word banks. I slap on my lexicon shoes, and wade to the other side.  So far the Queen and I played in the wordy wonderland, and built walls, played fort, and tossed verb balls—so to speak.

 

See, The Pirate is moving. I’ve told you this.  She’s also a planning dervish. I arrived at her house and everything was boxed.

 

“uhm, where do I sleep? “

“Box #33.28 contains bedding and a quilt.”

“Ok, where should I lay them out?”

“Oh, no. Sleep on the box. It’s soft.”

 

Yeah, she’s ready to go.  I thought I was a freak about these things, but she makes me look like a college intern.  She’s impressive.

 

Yeah, that I do mean in more ways than one.

 

While I sat on her lone sofa in the empty living room, She moved a clear Rubbermaid tote over to me. “Check this out.”

“Ok…”

It was her booty trove: pictures, and paraphernalia from her college days.  Articles and adornments that made the pirate a queen filled the box.

 

“Most Cognizant: Mrs. Henley’s Third grade class.”

 

“Wow! You were with it back then.” It was like examining the stepping-stones leading to the Queen’s dais. These are the events that made her who she is, commemorated in memorabilia. 

 

The clippings, and drawings didn’t mean as much to me as the pictures.  And as a visitor to her cove, they didn’t mean as much to me as they did to her.  After all, these were the stages set before we met.  They made her the queen that drives me wild, but I couldn’t appreciate the journey itself. That was her climb.

 

My climb lays in a similar box in Southern California. My walk is in Avon cardboard of articles and adornments that meant nothing to her during her visit.  Oh, she looked. She admired the awards, and clippings, and laughed at the mullet, but did she know what made me business in the front, and party in the back?  So to speak.

 

“Most Mindful: Mrs. Frey’s Third Grad Class.”

 

That was my path.

 

When you look at my trail in the snow, you’ll see multiple prints coming and going and wrapping around mine creating the double helix of others who’ve shaped my life. 

 

We both looked in each other’s different picture box and drew out similar photos.

 

“So why did you marry your ex?”

 

And there it was.  Who threw the first snowball?  Did it matter?  It was a line in the snow, and we’d eventually cross it.  She answered first. That was either a sign of Pirate bravery, or Blogger chivalry, that didn’t matter, because I was going to need to form my own snow ex. 

 

We laid out and drew our pictures. It didn’t matter how pretty; we were drawing for snow accuracy.  Like in other aspects, our impressions were different. The lesson’s we learned, and the lessons that drew us there to begin with. 

 

One thing remained the same: the story ended the same way, and like the rest of the items in our individual boxes: it drew us together.

 

Despite our differences, we found many similarities. We found that both paths, no matter how diverse, had brought us to one location, and that was a place we could share.

 

Now, about that pirate cove…