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Not bad for a fat girl


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Did I Really Write That?

I’ve been at this blogging thing since June of 2013, so a solid five years now. In that time I’ve published nearly 700 posts. Most of them have a fair number of words to them. Some, however, are quite short, and feature photos or a video instead of my usual ramblings. Still, that’s quite a few posts.

The thing about it is, I can’t actually remember writing all of those posts. It’s almost as if I was in some sort of stupor when I published them. Not all of them, of course, but I have stumbled across several that make me scratch my head in wonder. Are these really my words? Did I really say that?3d-clipart-question-mark-20.png

It’s not that I disagree with my past self, or that I’m embarrassed by anything I’ve written. At least so far I haven’t been. It’s just that it seems like the act of writing should leave more of an indelible mark. I ought to remember my words, as I remember the quilts I’ve made or the scrapbooks I’ve created.

Maybe words are just too common. Maybe it’s more like trying to remember meals I’ve cooked. Some stand out, for various reasons, but most just fade into the background to be forgotten. Maybe that’s how it is with words. Sometimes they stick, but other times they say their piece, only to be quickly forgotten.

I don’t mind, really. Sometimes it’s fun to see the suggested posts at the bottom of my screen and click on an old post. Sometimes it’s like seeing an old friend, but other times it feels brand new.


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Smell

Today I’m writing to the prompt “smell” from Linda G. Hill as part of her Stream of Consciousness Saturday series. It may be rambling, so apologies in advance!

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When I think of smell, I automatically think of the aroma of food cooking. A memory just triggered for me, a memory from childhood.

I recall waking up one morning, entirely on my own, so it must have been a weekend. I was never an early riser, and had to be woken for school. I remember that the house smelled strange. Not bad strange, just unusual.

At first I couldn’t quite figure out what it was, but then, as the sleep cleared away and my senses began to sharpen, I puzzled it out. The aroma was meat cooking. My mother had a roast in the oven at that early hour and it filled the house with its rich, robust aroma. It was such a strange smell for first thing in the morning.

What a small thing to carry around in my memory for so many years.


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A Walk

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I took myself on a walk this morning

Through the smoke and fog of time

Along the path covered in weeds

Back to the place I had almost forgotten

 

I took myself on a walk this morning

To the place where you held me

And told me you loved me

And made promises you meant to keep

 

I took myself on a walk this morning

To a place where I hadn’t yet heard of deceit

Where slander was unknown to me

And I assumed everyone was truthful

 

I took myself on a walk this morning

And turned my sight inward

And finally admitted

That I always knew there were lies

Because I was always a liar

 

I took myself on a walk this morning

And it felt good

To be out

To be free

To be on my own

In this space

 

I took myself on a walk this morning

And my shoe rubbed

And my foot ached

And my breath was short

And it was okay

Because I was feeling it all

 

I took myself on a walk this morning

And I was thankful

For the day

And the shoes

And the path

And the history I have carved into the limestone of my life

 

I took myself on a walk this morning

But I never left my home

I never left my head

I never went anywhere at all