Feeling out of sorts that my memories are not staying put in their hermetically sealed mental compartments.
How dare people live, evolve, and generally move on with their lives.
Why aren't you all where I left you?
I thought I finally had you organized, somewhat figured out, a semblance of order,
and here you are surprising me with all this growing up nonsense.
The nerve.
The gall; continuing to live after the time we knew each other.
Least you could do is not leave clues where I might stumble, unawares, upon your updated info.
Now I have to revisit/reorder how I feel about everything all over again.
I think it's going to be a good thing,
or rather it is already a good thing, and I will come to that realization eventually.
Going to need a bigger brain, and a bigger bottle of tequila.
Excuse me, I must intoxicate, inebriate, and otherwise imbibe.
Liberation in the form of a 20 cubic yard driveway dumpster.
Well on its way to a full belly.
All of it less to be moved (again in some cases) and less to sort through on arrival.
Apologies to all of the various memories and ghosts that are physically linked to those items being discarded.
the Dandy Warhols "We Used To Be Friends" feels about right.
Need an audio reminder? Go here for a listen.
It won't make a difference.
I can't keep it from happening.
I know this.
But I can't make myself do it, not yet.
And that is completely ridiculous and nonsensical.
See, I got a letter from my aunt.
She wrote that my grandmother didn't want presents or cards this year for her birthday.
All she wanted was for all the grandkids and greatgrandkids to write her a letter.
In the letter we should detail some of our fondest memories of spending time with her.
And I'm completely blocked.
This was a week and a half ago, and I've still got nothing.
I know why.
Everything about this smells like one of those last-things-before-I-die requests.
Somewhere in my twisted psyche is a bit of non-conforming logic that goes something like this.
If I don't write my letter, then she won't be able to let go yet, because she'll be waiting for it.
She can only die if I write my letter and she reads it, and thus feeling satisfied and complete, she passes on.
It's immature, childish, and irrational.
But I can't write a damn thing.
I've tried on paper, I've tried on the PC, I've even tried mental drafts to conjure which memories I'd detail.
Part of that problem is that I was the only grandkid who lived local to her while I was growing up, so I have a massive library of memories with her.
This doesn't make it easier to select a few, but rather it is nearly impossible.
Aside from the fact that I don't want to.
I'm now considering a tweak to the request that might get me over my block.
What if I write not about memories of her back in the day, but instead about my life now with my wife, my daughters, my friends, and people I've worked with.
I could connect how my interactions with all of them are inspired in part by my time spent with her and what she taught me compassion, humour, and gracious acceptance.
Perhaps.
And it is possible that she won't wait for my letter, and if I don't write it soon, that she will know none of this.
That little thought, though it should inspire me to quick action, only increases the height of the wall in front of me.