Decided today to visit memories.

Started by listening. Listened to Marc Cohn music. Then listened to more of Kate Bowler’s book, “No Cure for Being Human: And Other Truths I Need to Hear.” I visited their memories in my mind.

Later I visited the small town where I was born.

What did I remember? Life. It includes wounds, scars. It includes joy, laughter. It includes people and places and things. It includes seasons. Seasons which hurry in, then rush away.

What did I remember? Death. Actually, deaths. Of many. Many friends. Many family members.

I wanted to talk today to Mama and Pops. But Carolyn and Bill Maxwell are enjoying a wonderful Thanksgiving in that home where there’s much to rejoice about.

I wrote them a note anyway. I don’t expect them to read it. Writing to them was therapy for me as I remembered Thanksgivings and Christmases and aunts and uncles and cousins and friends and food and ball games played and ball games watched and cold winter weather and my wife and kids and grandchildren and grandparents and in-laws.


A train played its music, reminding me of growing up near the track and hearing that percussion. 

A yard looked so tiny, many decades after it felt very large. 

A house appeared empty, though my mind had it packed full of conversations, meals, laughter, and family. 

A cemetery, with no one else walking around, just me and memories.

Visiting the memories. A day before Thanksgiving for a day of remembering, of reflecting, of giving thanks. I’m glad I visited what, and who, I visited today.