An early morning reblog simply because I like this post.


I’ve convinced myself I remember this happening. In part because I know it did, and occasionally when for some inexplicable reason, I see or feel it. Accepting that my recollections are clouded by perception might explain my lack of memory.

I didn’t know my mother was a writer; she was a school teacher who went to work every morning and marked papers at night.We lived on a farm; my Mom and Dad, then five children – practically a litter of puppies. My sister only ten months older, my brother eleven months younger, the five of us separated by five years.

I remember the oddest things, more often than not a smell triggers the snapshot. Bees wax blinds me with a memory of the old washing machine tub my Dad rigged to extract honey from frames in his bee hives. I see myself turning the handle, honey dripping into a pail…

View original post 378 more words