My brain is a sponge --- it gets wrung out every Monday onto the pages of the newspaper, with my photos as flotsam. Since this is Tuesday, I am feeling a bit high and dry. My sponge is in need of a quiet spring in which to rehydrate.
I should be outside pushing a lawnmower over the dandelions. I should also be making pumpernickel bagels to go with the Alaskan smoked salmon I bought, or a loaf of sourdough from the jar in the refrigerator that has been sitting next to the pickles for more than a week unused.
Instead, I am making a blog.
My sister insisted I start one. Hers is quite amazing, when I am able to get a look at it. I had it bookmarked, then it disappeared. She occasionally shares when we are in the same room and she has her laptop on.
Turning 60 last week was cause for a pause to reflect on the ephemeral nature of things. Attending two high school graduations in one day didn't help things. Memories of my own graduation come too easily --- walking across the stage in the Arizona heat in those white shoes that were too big for me.
Sitting in the row as I filed past was one of the contributors to "potpourri," the little poetry magazine I started with Steve, a 14-year-old senior. The boy opened his closed fist to reveal a sugar cube. ("It's LSD," he whispered.) After all, it was 1967.
I thought about that summer this morning. It was Arizona, too hot to work, although I did.
I remember lying on a roof next to Tommy, looking at the stars as a cool breeze washed over us. Infinity isn't scary to an 18-year-old. Now it is.