“Mary says you have kind of a bubble ass, like Charles Barkley or some NBA player.”
The words surprised me. I couldn’t think of why she would say such a thing, but she was known for having a fiery temper.
Mary was the office receptionist and I had seen her fight with various personnel for reasons known and unknown.
I can’t tell you why she said anything about me to a customer or why he felt the need to tell me but I remember him laughing while he said it.
And I remember Mary laughing until I responded. Can’t recall what I said but I made her choke on her water.
Twenty-five years later she is a mostly faded memory and the company is long gone, having been acquired shortly after I left.
I was told they moved my position to Kansas but I have no idea if they would have let me go or offered to let me relocate.
Having driven through on I-70 I can’t say I am disappointed, would have been a different life.
I have lived many different lives in both dreams and reality and will likely live some more.
If all we had were words and not one in person experience you might wonder if it was just a dream or fantasy about what could be.
Except, that isn’t the case and you know better and so do I.
Facebook memories remind me that every July I am going to get the opportunity to relive some of my thoughts, feelings and experiences from Dad’s final month.
It is not the only time I’ll think of or about him. Not the only time or tool for visiting memory lane but it is the one that has the most structure to it.
I am a writer and storyteller and am particularly well equipped for such journeys.
They come naturally to me and sometimes I have to make a conscious effort not to get sucked in.
If a person or experience has been important to me there are memory markers that light up a path in through the neural network.
I can walk through the secret gardens and visit the castles and outposts within with more ease than I sometimes like.
There are moments that jump out at me and I can almost touch them. The moments of intense love, moments of triumph and the failures, times where I felt like I was being destroyed.
Don’t know if every writer feels such things or how many people in general do. Don’t know how many can’t relate at all, but I know they both exist as does a wide swath of others.
Plath is correct about one thing, all of our experiences can be written about…if you have the guts.
I find myself putting more and more out there, unloading the shelves and emptying the closets inside my skull.
Some of you may even recognize and or remember moments if you are brave enough to let yourself.
There are people I used to communicate with daily whose voices have gone silent and I am not sure why.
Can’t say if the quiet is because I did something to offend them. Can’t say if it is just life and they are busy.
Nor can I say if I am the source of the quiet. Can’t say if I failed to respond to something or if my response left them thinking I am the one who is upset.
I hear some voices in the silence and know this is part of the transition and we will speak again while others will drift away.
This is the way of things.
P.S. The soundtrack for writing this evening is below.