Excavation

 I find that aging is the time for excavation. The memories that remind me of who I am are fading. So I have to dig. Dig deep inside. Carefully clear away the accumulated detritus to discover the important artifacts of my life—the words, the images, the sounds, the persons.

What is hidden there? What still shines like gold despite the years buried? Are the memories of bodies together still flesh or are they brittle bone? Why do some stay stubbornly hidden?
Once the artifacts are dislodged, cleaned and laid out, I can arrange them into the museum exhibit that is my life.