I am a writer and I believe I think too much. Maybe this is what writers do; I am not sure. I find myself gazing at things around my room and something will catch my eye; and boom, I have a story to tell.
This happened this morning, in fact. I was sitting on my bed looking around at what I had left of my possessions that I truly cared for at heart. I looked at my low-boy dresser and suddenly was carried back to my youth.
I lived on a dead-end street in Warsaw, Indiana. Some of you from my city will probably remember the street; Oriole Lane. It was pretty close to the dead-end of the lane. We lived in a small house with a huge oak tree out front, that I can remember playing many times under with my dolls.
My brother and I would probably be looked down at now, or perhaps it would have been my parents that were looked at. I was 9-10 and he was 8-9 years old. We slept in the same bedroom in bunk beds. I slept on top and he had the bottom.
I had my dresser. In fact, I don’t remember any of my brother’s furniture. Maybe we shared the same dresser? I don’t know. Anyways, remember, I was staring at this dresser on my bed. I looked at the top drawer and then remembered one time my mom got really upset with me. Today, I don’t know why or understand. I think it was taboo or something.
I developed young. You know what I mean. That “special movie” hadn’t been presented in school yet and I think my mom didn’t expect something from me so young in age.
I got pretty scared and so when the evidence was seen with the naked eye; I hid all evidence. When my mom discovered it while putting clean clothes away; she found my items. She got angry and spouted off at me. Hey, I didn’t know what in the world was happening. For all I knew, I was dying.
Anyways, back to the presence, I laugh now as I think of that embarrassing moment in my young life. So many memories of my parents I savor today.
I am glad I am a thinker. I can revisit my memory box anytime I wish. I can bring it to the present and enjoy the times of being a kid.