Friday, November 4, 2011


I've been in the practice of remembering this past week.  The cold wooden floor in the bedroom that my brother and I shared in the first house my parents owned.  The way we played up there as often as we could with the pony walls and the toys that my brother kept there.

My parents had a walk-in closet that they had to stoop to walk into.  My mother's dresseds and father's shirts filled the racks and Patrick and I would crawl underneath them, hiding.  Our basement had walls of boulders and scared the living daylights out of me.  As young as I can remember I would quote "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want," every time I went downstairs to ward off the heebie jeebies as I called them.

Our puppy was a fluffy black with a white star in the middle of her chest.  We called her Midnight.  I don't remember the time that we had her, but I vividly remember my mother bending down, explaining that Midnight was too big and that she'd be going to another family.

It's funny how our memory chooses what it remembers.


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