Back Roads Home (II)
Letting go is hard. There are moments in our lives, birth, death, moving, that makes us feel anxious. It makes me procrastinate even more. I am surrounded by my life, depicted in photographs, letters, books, things I must sift through and, either, save or pitch. I hate doing this. I hate the fact that here, before my eyes, is all that I amount to. I know that I am more. I know that these pictures, these letters evoke other moments in my life when I felt the unease or euphoria of living. My journals are filled with the words I have dedicated to recording events. And, yet, it is hard to let go.
Letting go of what? I carry around within my mind feint glimpses of the initial memory and only need some prompt to remember greater detail. And it takes just something small, something we would pass on normally, for me to remember something special. As young student, I had to walk from my house to the bus stop. This would take me about 200 yards down the street; pass our ball field, down the hill to a t-section. I passed one house in particular that an old man and his wife lived with their dog. The dog would bark enthusiastically several feet before I passed, the old man would come to the large picture window and wave. I would wave back. It became a routine. Today, 25 years later from my high school graduation, I still look at that house, expecting some ghost to be standing there waving. I still smile.
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