Last night, well, actually non stop during the last few months of snatched moments to sit…I keep thinking about our family life eighteen years ago.
And then my heart rate goes up. I get clogged with thoughts of even the next eighteen days or months to come in our family.
Typically, unless I am listening to a Kate Rusby song, I quickly either
1: yell at the dogs or
2: start to cry or
3: become giddy with pride
This is generally followed by something really mature like:
a. misplacing my glasses
b. starting a new (full disclosure, perhaps the 10th) calender or to do list which I then of course,
All three of my sons are now,
and were, the kinds of boys who I’d want to hang out with if I’d have met them in a classroom or watched them misbehave at a grocery store.
But, if I had a magic wand, I’d find the words that are impossible to say or write. Words about what a calm and shockingly peaceful July and August I experienced eighteen years ago. It made no sense then, and makes less sense now. I can’t put words to it, and decided last week at the beach to stop fretting over the poems I wrote and subsequently lost ten and fifteen years ago.
They were good words at the time. If they turn up, so they do.
If they don’t…I’ll just find a new rodeo which hasn’t any words that tell.