As I de-clutter I find old bits of writing, scribbled or typed during times of turmoil and busyness. Most bring a smile to my face, some a sense of awe that I actually survived those times. They all startle me by reminding me of things I have little or no recollection of. Is my memory that bad, or is there just too much in there to have it readily available?
I wish I’d written more, as it brought a smile and chat to all the family when I shared one yesterday. But there was one plaintive query from the youngest. Didn’t I write anything when he was older, and no longer the annoying two-year-old?
Actually, I thought he was cute. I’m sure at the time I was frustrated as I swept up the sand one more time, but inside, I smiled. He had personality. He was alive. Sure, he was tiring at times, but he was a two-year-old. And now he’s nearly a quarter of a century. (Still cute, in his mother's eyes anyway!)
Where did those years go?
I hope in living life, rather than in writing about it. Life happens. And it happens at top speed.
Carpe diem.
I think I’ll go out and do something. Stop writing. Have a coffee with Don.
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