Writing. Everyday I think of something I could be writing. I think of my children, my husband and travels that I could be writing down. This personal history would be for the ones left when I’m gone. They might not want to read my words or feel my feelings that I collected on this short journey, but they will have the option.
Memory. Many of gone away from me. I’ve held onto bins of items, papers and photos hoping that they may jar a moment. I wonder if I’ll be diagnosed with something. Then other memories are sharp and strong. I’m going to very poorly paraphrase something that was meaningful, “we live in a loop of memories, just reliving the same over and over.” I think it was from True Detectives.
Life. Each day when I’m trying between my home and a little college town I see the cycles of life through the animals that violently run away from the sound of my car. Bunnies then rabbits, fawn then deer, and today a wee turtle. The road is the worst place to be as an animal, unless you’re driving.
This morning I felt in love with my surroundings. I listened to the birds, to the water behind the brush, I saw the big sky hanging over me. When I was on my bike, breathing hard, peddling fast to get to an appointment I was so thankful to be where I am now.