Trying to Remember.
Was it Friday again? Maybe Thursday. Can't remember for the life of me. I do remember the fresh smell. Yes. A bakery on the corner. I'm sitting there on a milky green bench with my back turned to the sweet smell of butter and baked flour. The paint on the bench is peeling from a lack of attention. The newspaper wept a sad story of another casualty in another land. What war? There's a war going on? Can't remember the last time I held a newspaper.
Hungry again.
My transparent world evolving around my simple life. So much commotion.
A bus stops in front of me letting out some people, mostly elderly women with woven handbags draping their forearms. They seem to wander about in caution as if they were about to spill over. Who represents these sullen, scowling expressions? Their memories fade like the paint on a bench.
A milky green bench.
I think I was waiting for the bus. I seemed to have forgotten what I was doing in the first place. The bus driver asks me if I'm getting on. No thanks. I think I will sit for a while.
A woman passes me and glances. She recognizes me. I don't remember her but I can remember this moment. She asks me if I would like to go in and eat in the bakery. I'm astonished.
I didn't know I was sitting in front of a bakery.
Moral of this story kids: Have patience with the people that can't remember things. It's frustrating trying to remember so many things that go on while trying to deal with the challenges of life. Love the forgetful.
Was it Friday again? Maybe Thursday. Can't remember for the life of me. I do remember the fresh smell. Yes. A bakery on the corner. I'm sitting there on a milky green bench with my back turned to the sweet smell of butter and baked flour. The paint on the bench is peeling from a lack of attention. The newspaper wept a sad story of another casualty in another land. What war? There's a war going on? Can't remember the last time I held a newspaper.
Hungry again.
My transparent world evolving around my simple life. So much commotion.
A bus stops in front of me letting out some people, mostly elderly women with woven handbags draping their forearms. They seem to wander about in caution as if they were about to spill over. Who represents these sullen, scowling expressions? Their memories fade like the paint on a bench.
A milky green bench.
I think I was waiting for the bus. I seemed to have forgotten what I was doing in the first place. The bus driver asks me if I'm getting on. No thanks. I think I will sit for a while.
A woman passes me and glances. She recognizes me. I don't remember her but I can remember this moment. She asks me if I would like to go in and eat in the bakery. I'm astonished.
I didn't know I was sitting in front of a bakery.
Moral of this story kids: Have patience with the people that can't remember things. It's frustrating trying to remember so many things that go on while trying to deal with the challenges of life. Love the forgetful.
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IM me next time we're both online. James was signed into my account and he thought it was his, so he deleted all the names he didn't recognize. We need to get together and write. School ends next week, and I have a lot of ideas brewing.