There is a road we travel, which we all travel. However the distance may not be the same. The distance between now and then or before and after is not always the same for everyone.
Either way, we all start from somewhere. Either way, we all travel down the road of life. Some travel longer than others but again, either way, some travel differently, some have shorter runs, and some have longer trips. This means there is a start, beginning, and there is an end to us all. However, what we do in-between is everything. This is the meat to the ribs of our life. This is our substance and our memory. This is the mark we leave behind and the fabric of our existence.
There was a little old boat in the rear, left corner of my backyard. The boat was aluminum, small with two bench seats across the beam, and while my memory of this is equally as small, I remember tiny glimpses of the little old boat.
I remember me, sitting in the boat with a life preserver that was perhaps bigger than my entire body. This is my first memory of her. We were fishing someplace near City Island.
I somehow caught a little starfish, if I’m not mistaken. This was before we moved out to The Island and away from my birthplace in Queens.
I have no idea where I will end up in the later years of my life. The one thing I learned is life changes and life can change quickly and unexpectedly.
I change. You change.
People change and so do the landscapes of the places we used to know when we were younger. Life fades and so can memory, unless we nurture them.
Of all things said to a loved one, one of the most popular questions is asked almost like a statement. This happens when something is wrong, only we didn’t know about it until something unfortunate happened and then we ask, “Well, why didn’t you tell me?”
I love my early morning drives. . . .
I love how the sun comes up from behind me and paints the horizon in pastel shades of purple and peach.
I love it this way. The world, I mean, I love the quiet.
I love the ring in my ears due to the absence of sound.
I had a chat with a friend whose sister survived the unthinkable. She talked about the power of words and what they mean. Somehow, my struggles are very small in comparison to others.
I have been trying to figure out what it means to be tough for as long as I can remember. Sometimes life happens and causes me to redefine my terms.
I found a prose I wrote for a young girl. Her name is Olivia. She was 13 when we met. She was diagnosed with stage 4 Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.
Everyone told Olivia how strong she was.
“You’re doing so well,” they told her.
“You’re so strong,” they said.
Pretty sure Olivia would have rather been less strong and healthier than sick and enduring. She went through chemo. She endured the treatments.
It’s okay to be you, to feel, to think,
to laugh, or cry, or neither;
it’s okay to be confused
it’s okay to be scared or feel frightened or worry;
it’s also okay to give yourself a break.