It was a grey and overcast morning here in southern Arizona--a rare event. Being a Yankee by birth and an autumnal kind of person by disposition, I tend to fall into a reflective mood on cool and cloudy mornings like this--sometimes wistful, sometimes melancholy. But even that doesn't explain the weird thing that happened to me this morning.
I started the day alone with Thing 2, who slept in bed with me, most of the night, after a bad dream. Thing 1 is off on an adventure in the Galapagos Islands with his grandfather, and The Wife spent the night in nearby hotel, either to have some horribly tacky affair or to finish the novel she's writing.
Thing 2 was in a jolly mood, watching Sponge Bob while I sat on an early morning conference call, and then trotting out to the car when called, his new stuffed animal in tow (in a cardboard box he's using as a bed, with a pillowcase for a blanket). We drove him to preschool/camp, listening to NPR and yakking happily away.
After I dropped him off, as I was driving home, a flood of memories washed over me--unbidden, unpredicted, and out of nowhere. All of a sudden, I was remembering a play that I wrote and directed back in college--26 years ago. As if some long-locked door had suddenly swung open, I could see entire scenes play out in my head--specific lines of dialogue, costumes that people wore, and songs--entire songs, line after line of the lyrics I wrote--things I hadn't thought about in...well, in close to 26 years, honestly.
Where did it all come from? What triggered that flood of memories? I have no idea. And HOW? How is it possible that such incredibly detailed memories reside inside me somewhere, fully accessible and present if the right key trips the lock?
Bits and pieces of the play have lingered with me all morning--more lyrics trickling into my head as the hours go on.
It's all very strange.