There is an unwritten rule somewhere, although, it’s rarely followed our wishes. The rule is Moms are not supposed to get sick or leave. Dads are supposed to know everything. They’re never supposed to leave. This is a rule.

There is a rule about our grandparents too, like Grandma and Grandpa. They are supposed to have hands with a touch that no one ever forgets.
And their eyes and the way they speak or the way they smile; there is something so powerful about them. There is something about the way the room changes as soon as they walk in.

I have always appreciated the warm fascinations about little towns and country roads with nothing on them but pavement and the occasional car that drives by on the way to go someplace else. There are towns like this, so small and unheard of, yet, they do exist. They have little stores and maybe a barber shop where the old men gather.
They probably have a diner in town, which everyone goes to and they have pies there, like peach cobbler or maybe even key-lime with a little puff of whip cream swirled on top.

There are details we hold onto, such as the past and the unresolved tensions that linger in the halls of our memory. Tensions like this are the unanswered questions that remain even after the tension is gone. We are products of our past. We are the aftermath of incidents and the remnants of recollections that stem from incidents and accidents that happened during out daily life. Our mind is a recording that plays the compilations of resentments to which, at some point, we become weighed down by things that are long since gone.