The last few grains of sand in the hourglass are just grains away, and the splendor of the night sky is dimming. I have a few regrets, most of which I had spent more time with my family. I've seen too much death and sorrow, which has hardened my heart, allowing me to escape mourning and to tell myself all will be good when the road comes to an end. But I realize keeping my emotions buried deep inside only causes me more sorrow and more pain. Seven plus decades, and I remember them all constant reminders of the gift I didn't ask for. A writer of stories has only his memories to give characters life and his imagination to bring those lives meaning. I have learned that my characters often reflect someone I met along the way, and I take bits and pieces from them and make them better with my imagination. It's been a good run, except for the fame most writers hope for. My work will become dusty papers and flash drives hidden among the things in my house that will be discarded, and rightfully so. Early American trash has memory only to me. Things I call my comfort, each piece a memory, a flashback, and a moment in time, I'm back to the happiness I remember so well.
Mike 2024
No comments:
Post a Comment