Dug into a box of old pictures. It used to be painful for me to do this; now, not so much. I used to run from my past – too much pain and unresolved emotions.
But twenty-five years of therapy and a lifetime of living has changed all that. Old scores were settled long ago; I still recognize myself and my family in the photos, but it’s as though they’re from another life.
And in a sense, they are. I’ve already lived a few lifetimes and dodged death more than once.
I’m still alive, thank you very much, and still creative. My brain is still firing on all cylinders, even though my body isn’t what it once was. I can live with that.
The crazy part’s been under control for a long time – long enough for stability to feel like normal. Trust me, that outcome wasn’t a given.
And I’m still working, trying to give something back, trying to be a good person. I made it through this fucking pandemic in one piece – something I didn’t expect. I tried to help others as best I could.
Here’s what I know will happen: When I’m gone everything will end up in the dustbin of eternity, right along with everyone else’s contributions, great or small as they may be.
I’m OK with that. I’m not really sure what else we could hope for.
I’ve been loved, and given love. Everything else is gravy.