‘You really do write like you’re running out of time’
A friend baked some special brownies for mom, and I didn’t mention just how special they were. She’s been tripping for two days and declared, nope, I am not touching the rest.
Well, I could stand to get out of my head. And I am well aware of how much extra-special she injects into her baked goods.
Let me tell you. I don’t know what Massachusetts is putting into its weed, but I tripped my whole way down memory lane yesterday.
The whole way.
Memories came flooding back that I’d long forgotten. Just from last year!
I couldn’t feel my face. Or my legs. So I went with it.
I never understood what makes one reach out and try to make nice with someone who’s hurt them.
But damn.
When you’re wearing a virtual, virtual-reality helmet, it makes the heart soft in spots.
When I could sit upright, I compared old photos to new ones. Such a difference. In both of us.
How do you #makenewmemories where wonderful ones already existed?
Not long ago, I asked where the butterflies go when we no longer feel them.
Today I wonder where the light in our eyes goes.
Butterflies die and lights go out.
But memories remain. More vivid than the sun I’m staring at right now.
No one can take those away. They are frozen in time, preserved in amber, locked in a time capsule.
I’m taking back the narrative. Inserting myself back in.
Call me Eliza Hamilton.
I always thought Sia would tell my story. But I somehow outlived her.
So I’ll tell hers. Mine. Everyone’s.
Yours.
“Oh, I can’t wait to see you again
It’s only a matter of time
Will they tell your story? (Time)
Who lives, who dies, who tells your story? (Time)
Will they tell your story? (Time)
Who lives, who dies who tells your story?“