WE RECENTLY BOUGHT a neglected house in town to use as a rental, a property foreclosed on and sold cheap after its owner died. Now we are left with the task of sorting through piles of “junk” someone once valued. 

I sort through a box of photo rem­nants of a life. Black-and-white photos of a schoolboy and a schoolgirl at various ages. I wonder if these are the boy and the girl who grew up into the man and the woman who married, whose marriage covenant I found framed large. 

If so, he died first. There was only an old woman living here at the last, an old woman who must have needed the ramp and the wheelchair and the plastic storage cabinet full of medical supplies. 

She’s left other records behind. A girl’s — maybe a daughter’s — perfect attendance record. A certificate for a CPR class. A certificate of divorce. What I guess to be a son and a daughter looking slightly unnatural in too-dressy clothes and gummy smiles.

I wonder why a family did not treasure these records of a life. Do they not care about such quiet old things? Are their lives too full of podcasts and talk shows and work? Was there a breach in the relationship? Or were the pictures simply overlooked?

Here, this fresh young face. Is this a granddaughter? And this, a grandson? Pictures show the daughter reaching adulthood, but what happened to the son? Did he die? Leave the family? 

There is a book about grief here. Here a motto, birds flying, commemorating a Stephanie who’s flown. A child’s artwork, signed “Stephanie.” And what’s this? A letter from a correctional institution addressed to Mom. 

What heartbreak lies folded among the remnants of this life? — heartbreak along with smiling faces, records of accomplishment, sweet cards from friends. 

And here am I, a stranger, conjecturing. Looking at the photos not so much because I am morbidly curious but as a mark of respect. I do not want to briskly throw away the remnants of a life along with flaccid pillows, outdated tins, moldy books. 

There is too much of everything in this house. Too much bagged, boxed, stored and unused. Maybe a record of a thrifty soul. Or of an old woman who wasn’t able to get down the basement stairs anymore to sort and discard for herself. 

Who knows what things I have saved that later eyes will look at impatiently (why on earth?) and toss into a dumpster. 

That is why I am afraid to confide too much even in a journal. Who knows what those later eyes will unearth? The words will probably be shoved in a box, deleted from a file, burned, forgotten. But what if they are not? 

I am listening to a biography of Elizabeth Elliot, based on her piles of journals. “Things nobody cares to read but me,” she wrote in one of them. But I am listening to excerpts from those journals. I care. 

What if, years later, someone who cares reads my records of birth, death and emotion and finds things I would not have told them? Or what if, years later, no one bothers to read? 

Which would be worse? 

I’ve heard people say that writing can impact others for years to come. Maybe. But words are cheap. Amazon and the internet are inundated. 

When I think of the people who have most impacted my life, I don’t think of a person faceless behind a book. I think of my mom and dad first. Their unconditional love, their willingness to listen. 

Then I think of others. An older couple who mentored me. A friend who loved me wholeheartedly. Our children’s adopted “grandparents” at church.

Written words are almost meaningless compared to the impact of one ordinary life.

I am fascinated, captivated, by ordinary life. 

Ivan walking into the house, his loping gait. Sunlight on pine needles. Blocks scattered across the floor. Teddy making broom broom noises with his tractor. (How does he know to do that? He’s just turned a year, and I never showed him.) My daughter’s warm head, hair under my cheek, long lashes fanned down. 

The present your children want most is your presence, I read recently. That is why I call Annalise when it’s time to set the table, do the dishes, work on a jigsaw puzzle. Often it would be easier to do it myself. But I want her friendship and company when she is 15, so I court it now, when she is 3. 

The things we leave behind. The moldy books and flaccid pillows will be thrown into a dumpster. Other things remain.