My mother and I are attempting to sort through the house - particularly her nooks and crannies (spare bedroom, her dresser, top of the china cabinet, the craft corner in the basement, you get the idea).
When my youngest brother came along, my father built an amazing bed for him with loads of storage built into it. It has a full chest of drawers under it, and if you remove the mattress, there's a secret door for more storage (whole boxes fit in it).
Well, I discovered some of my stuff still in that secret compartment the other day - stuff from high school, college, my year of service, etc. Amongst the 'treasure', I found a letter from the BIC-Geneva. Mark did his year of service there, and I had applied - basically as his replacement. Without knowng what their response was, I assumed I wasn't accepted and headed down to Guadeloupe. For years now, Mark and I told the story that I could have met him then, if only I'd read the letter (of acceptance).
Well, turns out I didn't get accepted at the BIC. At least now I can let go of any guilt about not reading the letter and responding to a possible invitation to serve sooner - so much for our story.
I've found other evidence of me slightly twisting my memories - often making them sadder than they were. It's freeing to find my 'correct' memories, though crushing to know why I'm finding them at all.
