Yes, I know. But I’ve been busy. Wait until you read it. Even me, writing it and having lived it and now re-lived it through my journals, I stayed busy. And in another fact, that’s what people would hear when they asked me how I did so much.
“I stay busy,” I’d say.
Now I have days and days when I write, work out, take a nap, and write. I may or may not get to the gardens before winter. However, what I’m also learning is that I always had a hard time getting to the gardens, which I had invariable planted, in one way or another before winter. Even when I lived in the desert and needed to cover the strawberries in a vain reproduction of farm life. They did not exactly prosper but they survived. Corn and eggplant thrived.
The above tunnel, if you’re wondering, is the light at the end of the tunnel. I have one long final climax. The last chapter is pretty well written. Hence, light.
In one of my latest chapters, I wrote about a family reunion with all my siblings and aunts and uncles and mothers and cousins. Well, my mother. And after describing our, my Sibs and my, behavior when things rattled, I wrote. “We only got older, not different. Except we laughed more.”
I guess that’s what I’m discovering about me in this memoir, culled from journals and letters I received and letters I wrote and poems I half-wrote, I’m pretty much the same. I’m not different, just older. Except my busyness is now sitting at home and writing and culling letters and sometimes, when my head gets too full, cleaning one or another of the rooms upstairs in our old house. And I laugh a lot more.