At 79, the likelihood of one of my pals showing up at the door and asking if I can come out and play is very slim. I don’t find that sad or depressing, but I enjoy the memories of when it did happen, many calendar pages back.
What concerns me more is when those memories begin to fade into the woodwork. I tend to see my memories as a life vest keeping me afloat. With my thoughts in tact, I don’t have to bother with the news of the day, who is going to war with who, or even what the weather is doing.
When it is scorching outside, I’ll simply recall those times I had to bundle up to shovel a path down to the mailbox. And when the snowdrifts are piled up to the windows, I’ll remember those days at the ocean, splashing in the waves, keeping a watchful eye out for a stray fin.
I expect my internal
movies will one day click off, but until that time, I’ll enjoy the memory of
buttered popcorn, the feel of greasy fingers and the previews of coming attractions.
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