Tonight, my username seems more apropos than ever. I've been put in possession of my oldest diaries: elementary school concerns, grade school crushes, and high school loves.
Then after . . . and some of the journey is captured here . . . that passionate teenager went to such deep and dark places. What happened to her there, really? How did she become this now-me, this slightly mommy-shaped official adult who fixes the garage door and used a plunger on the garbage disposal tonight?
Usually I talk to these ghosts of myself when I go North. I am a little surprised that they've visited me here and that they still want to talk.
I will go North, the day after tomorrow. With my baby daughter, who will sleep in a playpen in B's old office. There may still be a ghost or two in there, but only gentle ones now, I hope. Gentle ones, and maybe remorseful ones.
In any event, a ghost of young B would mean her no harm. And let's not forget that these are the ghosts of persons still living. We-the-living have dusted ourselves off, moved along, met spouses, mastered professions, and procreated.
I believe that her sweet presence will fill that room. She is loved, so loved. And I wonder if, with her tiny bright heart to busy me, I will hear fewer whispers in the deep, spreading silence of those northern summer nights.
12:09 a.m. - 07-16-09
Recent entries:
Sealy Writes - 04-04-18
Rewind to "Everything's Fine" - 12-25-17
What We Have So Far - 12-25-17
Lightning Crashes - 2017-12-24
Long Years in a Short Time - 09-11-13
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