I’ve never been one to blog, so if you’re reading this: be kind to a less-than-linguistically-skilled friend.
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot on very formative events from my childhood. Things that (because of my memory) I am bound to forget eventually. Just earlier this week, my mom found a old clump of fur from my childhood cat Molly. I grew up with her from the moment I was born. Ever since, my mom has told stories of how she would never have left my side. I distinctly remember one tall tale of my mom having left for the laundry, and Molly calling back to look at her in a way that my mom can only describe as (and I quote) “where are you going, woman!??” Molly was always a great cat; no matter how aggressive she might’ve been to the mice when she occasionally snuck outside, I’m sure they would understand that that’s just the way things happen sometimes.
On that same train of thought, I eventually get to the lovely reminder of how lost my best friend when I was very young, being around 6. Though it’s sick to think about, I think most people reading this either thought “FREAK ACCIDENT” or cancer. If you guessed the latter, you’d have been correct. Eventually, the longer I sit with that, I stand to wander-wonder how different my life would have been: had he survived, had it not snowed on my birthday, had I not seen that owl. This probably all sounds like superstitious mumbo-jumbo to a lot of people, but it makes sense to me in this moment here, and I guess that’s what counts.
Maybe it’s because I’m sick. Actually ignore that, it’s probably because I’m sick and sweaty and gross right now, but maybe it’s also because of my fashion teacher’s story about her friend’s old boots, or that song about dying lovers, or my parents’ potential impending divorce, or the school-burnout-exhaustion. Regardless, I’ll be fine because I’ve made it this far and I know how to keep going.
See you sometime next week, maybe I’ll get into poetry if I don’t feel too embarrassed.
txto