Ugh. What a boring title. Who'd want to read a post about that?!
But whatever.
I went to a wedding shower today for my great-nephew (seriously? I have one of those old enough to get married?!) where my mother-in-law (who's 98) fondly reminisced about her old home in Lincoln, Nebraska. My sister-in-law noted that her mother only remembers the good things about life there, and it occurred to me that the passage of time frequently allows us to do that--remember what we loved about a place or a person.
When I think about my childhood in Edgemont, I don't think about the nightmares I was prone to having as a kid. I don't dwell on the anxiety I frequently felt about my dad's job and whether or not we'd have to move. I don't remember the way that neighborhood kids made shifting and hurtful alliances with and against one another. I rarely remember the illness that put me in bed for the better part of a year.
Instead, I think about the way it felt to go screaming down our street on a that green Schwinn bike and running barefoot--fast and hard--through a sunlit summer.
1 comment:
Good title because it’s true. I suppose time sifts the hard things to the depths of memory and keeps the gossamer lightness at the surface. Thank you xo
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