Remembering can be wonderful.
I’ve been wallowing in memories of my childhood … romanticizing it all, finding humor in things that weren’t really funny if you think about them for any length of time. It’s been healing/purging/enlightening.
Sometimes it’s been damned terrifying. Regret is not an emotion I particularly enjoy. Rage at people who SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER, for God’s sakes, is something I am not sure where to put. Wondering about the “what-ifs” doesn’t really do a whole lot of good, except maybe in helping me find material/plot twists/characters for my Great American Novel.
Remembering Mama tapping her foot to music, completely off-beat, and telling her she had absolutely no rhythm, then being shocked and hit upside the head with the hilarity of her response: “If I did, you wouldn’t have been born.”
Remembering the night at the end of the last family vacation in my married life.
Remembering my uncle taking me for rides in the pony cart.