Memory

Something made me think of the memory care center today, where I spent a year of weekends. I wondered if things were moving along exactly the same there after six months' absence. I thought: yes, definitely. Things don't change there. Lois is still sitting in the recliner by her bed. Helen is playing another round of solitaire with her faded red cards.

How I was going to write about it. I have begun to, but I never finished. I want to finish. Even when I think of those like Hendrix and Connie, who could write a hundred times more than I could about it. About what it's like to love them.

Tuesday after work and dinner

I should go to bed. I know I should. I'm not a strong person and I don't do well when I don't get enough sleep. But the dishwasher is churning (for the second time tonight) and its dark and quiet. It feels kind of nice.

We're moving. But we aren't allowed to take any boxes over to the new house (vacant 1.5+years) so the house is slowly imploding with cardboard. But the children still want a tree so by Golly, we'll have one.

On the cusp of good things, overall. I miss writing.

Do I Still Blog?

Oh yes- all the time.

In my head.

As I am drawing up syringes full of white milky Kenalog mixed with Lidocaine. As my hand swipes the spilled sugar off the counters on Thanksgiving morning. As I think about how it's coming up on seven years since Jonathan died.

Words weave themselves together in my head while my hands are busy, so busy. The words can't seem to make it onto a screen, or even a scrap of paper. The little notebook in my purse suffers from neglect and I miss the magic of seeing my words together in rows.