Early afternoon. Today is a day for a Subway
picnic over at the Little Miami. You did your thirty-minute exercise attempting
to get back to the routine.
You just
had a Subway picnic at your usual shady spot in Rose Hill Cemetery. Carol is on
page seventy-eight of Harlan Corben’s The Stranger. It is a fine late
summer/early fall September Sunday where you have a slotted memory of 9/11/01
as well as December 7, 1941. Sixty years apart buried in one memory, and you
weren’t even alive and kicking in 1941. – Amorella
1425
hours. I grew up understanding the gravity of the event though. Enough public
words have been said about both; and both remind me not so subtly of the Ides
of March, and how our species can sometimes be to one another. – A large cloud
just rolled over and had dimmed the sun over the cemetery sobering the grass, stone
and tree setting a bit. Only the Living would notice . . . I think.
It is as a coffin lid is closing from above,
boy – that is the sobering intensity you are feeling within. – Amorella
1448
hours. I suppose, but it doesn’t bother me that much – having an ear for the
Dead though is in my personal nature – imagination or not, both the ear and the
Dead exist in mind and heart.
I do not deny it, boy. The soul though is as
the cloud in this instance, a catalyst for future memory and imagination. All
for now. Let’s let it be. - Amorella
After dark. You forgot to take your pen last night so you
did it tonight. You also ran to the store for milk, bananas and cookies in that
order. The windows are open and the cooler fresh air filters in. Tomorrow the electrician
and Larry come by and Tuesday you have dental exams at 1230. After the news
Carol washed her hair and you watched the first episode of a new summer show on
Netflix titled, “Stranger Things”. – Amorella
2104
hours. I liked it well enough to watch the second episode, but not
tonight.
Post. - Amorella
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