Free Charting the Unknown by Kim Petersen Page A

had swept up all the dust, dead spiders and other bugs that were dried and crumbled like old leaves on contact with my broom. There remained one large box at the back. It was heavy and unmarked. I examined the outside but had no recollection of packing it or moving it there. With considerable effort, I half-hauled and half-shoved it into the middle of the room. Under a hanging light bulb, I cut open the tape, yellowed and frayed at the edges, and pulled back the flaps.
    On top was Norton's Anthology of Literature, and just below it several spiral notebooks, mine and Mike's, full of class notes from university. I remembered this box of books. It had been packed by some other woman, a younger version of me, right after university on her way to a new apartment. I thumbed through my notebook from Philosophy 101. Despite the fact that the class was at 9a.m., it had been a favorite course. Mike and I, having recently begun dating, had sat together yawning. On the corner of one page containing notes on Plato's theory of dualism I made out in Mike's handwriting, “Care for a Plate-O muffins after class?” Directly under that was written in my own script, “A sad attempt, but yes” and after that, a smiley face. I was into smiley faces then.
    I set the notebooks aside and lifted away several textbooks. At the bottom I recognized another favorite text, Abnormal Psychology, and heaved it into the lamplight. Upon lifting the cover, a folded piece of spiral notebook paper fell out, and landed on the newly swept floor. Its memory was initially lost to me. The edges were jagged on one side and it was spotted with what looked like grease. I bent over to pick it up and even as I turned it over, I began remembering my younger self sitting in the cafeteria discussing dreams with Mike.
    I read through it, smiling, and then on impulse, I brought the paper up to my nose and breathed in. I sniffed the grease spots left by the Shepherd's Pie, but there was only the musty smell of aged paper. I remembered that we had meant to read this list every year on the anniversary of our first date, but we never had. Somewhere along the way, we had forgotten all about it.
    Later, over pizza at the kitchen table, I said to Mike smiling, “Check out what I found while cleaning the basement today.”
    â€œYou cleaned the basement?” he said in shock.
    â€œYes, but that's not the point. Look at this.” I handed Mike the piece of paper.
    He flipped open the page with little reverence, like he would a bill or the front page of a newspaper. I was watching. Waiting for the moment. It was coming.
    â€œHey…What is this? Where did you find this?” He was incredulous and had started rubbing the tip of the page softly with his thumb. “This is our list!” he said, exuberant, eyebrows raised. “Do you remember this? Sitting in the cafeteria! Boy, were we young then. Check it out,” he said pointing and grinning up at me: “Bungee jump, are you kidding me?” He harrumphed in mockery.
    â€œI know,” I said, “and tie ourselves to trees in the Amazon? What the heck is that?”
    He was suddenly earnest, “But look here, some of these are good. Like, have a family. CHECK. See the seven wonders. Meet the Pope and Mother Teresa. Build our own cabin in the woods and live there. That doesn't sound half bad. Check out this one: live on a boat and cross the ocean. You know…we could actually do that someday. Maybe when we retire.”
    â€œI know. Seeing that list after, what, 15 years? It moved me.”
    â€œI love who we are now, and in many ways, I do not have any desire to go back and be that person I was so long ago. But I love the passion of those early days, when we believed that we could make anything happen.”
    â€œI think we should keep that list around for awhile. Who knows, maybe our former selves will inspire us to do something wild and crazy?” I said grinning,