pearlington

I just spent a week in Pearlington, Mississippi, helping to rebuild a house that was heavily damaged in Hurricane Katrina. I've been journaling about it for days, and I feel like I've hardly begun to understand what to do with the memories and experiences of the trip.

this is not the house.



Today, a friend at work who is also in my writers' group told me she hoped I would start writing about the trip soon. I told her I hope I can, too. But I need to just get all the journaling done now, just to preserve the raw memories and emotions both during and after the trip. Without that, I don't have a prayer of putting something meaningful together.

But to be honest, I don't know if I want to. I spent a week inside someone else's home. I was more intimately involved with its design and construction than I am with my own. I was a stranger, invited into that family because I was willing to briefly share life with them. What I learned of them and the time we shared are precious. I don't know if I want to share with anyone else. I don't know if I should.

But I probably will. Because I don't know if I can help it.