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Naked Blathering

It's all just a bunch of junk


Watch what you say there. It might be junk, but it's my junk. Those are my memories.

I remember the telephones. Me downstairs on the stool. My sister upstairs. I'd ring the bell. We'd chat on the phones.

I remember the typewriter. I used to type. Just type. Nothing in particular. But what fun to hear the hum of the typewriter, the clicking of the keys, the clacking of the arms as they bounced up to punch the letters in ink on the paper.

I remember the sunshine on the ceiling. Yellow rays of light painted on a blue background.

I remember the old computers. Searching and always moving in circles, trying to find objects. Make the computer do what I told it to do. Except I wasn't telling it right. Couldn't ever find the lantern.

I remember the piano. Trying to play. Wanting my grandmother to think I played pretty. Listening to the old metronome tick and keep the beat.

I remember the swing set. That old metal set in the backyard. The wooden seat. The double-swing. The monkey bars. Climbing up.

I remember dressing up. Playing. Pretending. I was the princess.

I remember waking up early on Sunday so I could ride the bus. A stop at the donut shop. Picking up all the other kids. Offering everyone a donut.

I remember sitting in your lap. In the big comfy chair. In your office. Your mustache tickled my face. Your belly was soft. Your arms were strong and warm.

I remember all the junk. But it's my junk. My memories. My history. Part of who I am. Don't call it junk.

9:54 AM :: ::
  • I love posts like this. Brings so many memories alive in my own mind.

    Thanks for sharing.

    By Blogger Useless Man, at 9:44 AM  
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