The Air BnB apartment I stayed in over the weekend had a fantastic retro kitchen, including this vintage sink. I posted this photo on Instagram last night, with a note that the sink reminds me of my grandpap, whose house was a 1950s time capsule. And then the first lines of an essay came to mind:
"Earl's wife Elsie died in 1959, when their children were just 9 and 13. After that, nothing was ever the same again, and yet nothing ever changed, either."
I started writing late last night, and as the words and images and memories and questions tumbled out, I realized that I've been incubating a story about this part of my family for years and years. There's so much packed in there that right now I'm just trying to get it all out on paper, without worrying about structure or writing craft or word choice. It's been awhile since I had a story insisting to be born. It feels good. It makes me tingle. It makes me wonder what I'll find.