When preparing to move, rooting through boxes of crap is inevitable. You find things like your high school yearbooks, which you haven’t looked at in years because you’re friends with most of those people on Facebook anyway. You find your collection of New Kids on the Block memorabilia from when you were just a kid, and your husband urges you to throw it all away, only to receive a heated glare because your Joe McIntyre doll isn’t going anywhere. Continue reading “Materializing memories”
Running barefoot in the morning grass, the freshly-cut blades sticking to your feet. Mom won’t let you back into the house until you’ve sprayed your feet with the water hose but, even after the grass is all gone, the bottoms of them stay green for a full day.
Spending most of your afternoon standing in the cool shade of the old oak tree, unable to take your eyes away from the tiny little green frog that’s been clinging to the bark. (You name him Phil.)
When November rolls around every year, there are always two dates on the calendar that matter – my birthday and Thanksgiving. The first grows less significant each year as I reach the age where I start to pretend that I don’t have birthdays at all. The latter, which is a holiday that’s supposed to be filled with gratitude and love and familial closeness, leaves me empty.
At least once a month, I tell my husband that we should move to Alaska. Continue reading “Ready to bloom”