Onward, but still . . .
I wish I still had the 1950ish-vintage stove that came with the house we bought in 1976 and we left behind in 1979. You know the kind, four burners and a sunken soup pot, an oven on one side and a drawer for pots and pans on the other, the whole thing looking distinctly automotive, rounded edges and all. Practicality says I have no place for it, but still.
I wish I could go back to Crescent View Cottages on Siesta Key. Little duplexes each with a little front porch where we hung our beach towels, on a crushed-shell drive that deadended on the beach. They aren’t even there any more.
I wish I still had the yellow ceramic lamp we got with S&H green stamps in 1971. Tall and just short of gaudy, with gold braid around the top and bottom of the white drum shade.
I wish I had the aquamarine ring my parents gave me in high school, that I lost a couple of years later. Careless youth.
I wish my kitchen had the old built-in cabinet that was part of the kitchen where I grew up. Floor to ceiling on the wall next to the kitchen table, painted white. Plates, glassware, serving dishes, and vitamins in the top part, canned goods in the bottom part, with a middle shelf where paper clutter landed.
Good stories are always told in sensory specifics. These are details of memory, parts of my story. Every day has been, is, and always will be filled with details. How many slip by unnoticed? How many of them will I long for later? How close to true are the details of my life? Does memory change them?
Good stories need great characters, too.
I had two tough grandmothers. They withstood a lot. I miss them.
I miss talking easily and often with my brothers.
I miss sharing life with my children.
How many people whom I know today know me, a multi-layered me, a 3-dimensioal me?
Missing won’t bring anything back. What colors my life today? Who do I treasure today? Will I pay attention, or will I let the days slip by?