Once again, chirpy accents that tinkle like fairy bells broadcast news there's been another "episode" of old age winning the battle against a desire to do something simple. Like, get a glass of water or walk to another room.
California sunshine fills even the dankest of hospital rooms and the pissed off roommate is more polite about how pissed he is than I am with good friends who say something stupid.
My father keeps saying when, when, when do I go home when are we getting out of here when do we leave and I keep saying soon soon soon soon we're getting out of here soon we're going to leave soon we go home.
But soon is no longer an abstract concept that invites patience. It is only the panic of a memory that doesn't remember itself.
And home now becomes ground that shifts and undulates like an earthquake, making haven a questionable place of uncertainty.
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Related posts:
It Was His California
Sunday Memories: The First Home
Sunday Memories: A Winter Coat
Sunday Memories: A Tale Of Two Brothers
1 comment:
When you are young home is where you hang your hat but as you get older home is where your memories are and then, that too slowly drifts away.
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