In Texas, I come back to the me that was young. First apartment, first jobs, the miracle of my children’s births, friends marrying and having babies and building dreams. My ex’s vintage grandma baking pies
and mashing potatoes and brewing tea and putting a hot meal on the table during the seconds we sat on her sofa and rested a bit. My parents, together, driving down to visit.
Perhaps I forget the bad parts. The loneliness of a strange land, mean neighbors, fire ants. Being blamed when he got ejected from the church softball game.
Yet I wonder if there were bad parts? Wasn’t it just life–hard, dreary, hilarious, delightful life? And even now, hard work and broken bones and doubts and fears will someday fade from view and later I’ll remember bonfires at the farm and family dinners at cousin Beth’s and bike rides and river floats.
That’s life too, one I want to live, alive, not muddle through ruined by selfish people and ugly ideas.
Get away from me! I’m done with you!
There are still people who laugh and children who sing and dogs who need a home.
I’m still living. Things that hurt me have not harmed me.
I’m living, and I reach out to those who want to live too.
© 2018 Deborah Rankin