With my head in the sand of school, the world turned around me, and I kept my horizons narrow and focus tight. What I failed to realize was, well, mortality. You’re young and learning and the last thing you think of is your body—it does what you ask it to do, and it doesn’t sideline your plans with pain, inflexibility, or hospital stays.
My father is fighting cancer. My aunt died. My German teacher died. So, when Mykala and I drove back from Lutsen a few days ago, I looked a the gray sky a little differently. What would it be like if this winter was your last? What if this blizzard is the one you have to remember, and all others will just be walks you take in your mind? What if this Christmas marks the last time you set up the tree? What if, sometime soon, you’ll have to conjure the scent of balsam in your memory, hoping it will mask the acrid detergents and ethanol hand cleansers?
I want to understand the preciousness of my life, but I haven’t been able to do it consistently. Just one look at the bank statement or the loan consolidation, and I’m pulled right back into the everyday concerns of life. Out of the experiential and into the narrative. Yet I hope to avoid the amazing hypocrisy of both Ben Franklin and Samuel Pepys in my personal writing—they always seemed to espouse the virtues of qualities they did not have.
Anyhow, I’m listening to Bon Iver’s Re: Stacks, and Mykala is on her way home. This, too, is precious.
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