I miss my dog. I miss that little hate filled, angry, and always ready to annoy everyone little chihuahua.
I miss my ability to read without glasses. I can't even look at my computer anymore without experiencing letter blindness.
I miss my grandmas...both of them. They were full of wit and vinegar...usually more vinegar than wit.
I miss skinny jeans. I don't even think they make skinny jeans in my sive. They would be called fat jeans.
I miss excitement...now I just wake up one day closer to the grave with something new hurting every morning.
I miss typewriters. Not computers, or electric typewriters, but real manual typewriters. The click of the keys, the little bell letting you know it is time to get ready to hit that silver return handle.
I miss gardens. I hate to hoe. I hate to weed. I hate to wait while plants grow so slowly. But still, I miss gardens.
I miss the river that I grew up next to. That never ending surge of water swirling by, filled with fish and dead things. Always a mystery what was floating by.
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| The mighty Rainy River |
I miss someone else making decisions. Even little decisions like what do I want for supper seem draining anymore. I used to walk in and Mom had already decided. And it was good!
I miss Christmas at the grandparents house. Every relative fit in, we ate like wolves, and nobody talked politics.
I miss eating what I want and not having weight and gas problems.
I miss forests and silence. That was my refuge.
What do you all miss?
You, of course. Where did that boisterous happy-go-lucky young boy-man go sporting red golden locks to his shoulders and no facial hair, whom we could never trust what came out of his mouth in Canadian-speak, was the truth, eh, except to him at almost 90 km/m and frustrated even the most patient of us who happened to be in the vicinity, totally by chance, hurriedly looking for someone or something else and happened onto him; him who married Sara/Sarah Jerry&Marionsdottir and worked at Arctic Cat Snowshoe Factory in Tuff Rubber Balls, Minnesoter as a speed lacer/snowshoe tester (Or so he claimed ...) then suddenly morphed into a 6th grade school teacher in Dodge City, Kansas over night as a father to Malorie, a future Baylor University candidate and major film maker, and an extra extra-small dog walker for Sara/Sarah Jerry&Marionsdottir Bouchard who couldn't walk the fierce canine every single day by herself because she was so busy home-schooling Malorie future Baylor University candidate and major film maker, until the age of eighteen at which time she was taught to drive and given a new Volvo Station wagon (that earned five stars in Euro NCAP and NHTSA crash tests) to ensure her safety as a future Baylor University candidate and major film maker. That John Bouchard. Gotta love the guy.
ReplyDeleteWell said WW.
ReplyDeleteWhen you (any you) possess a memory palace, you still have it all, like it or not.