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We were already writing the stories of how we’d remember the great pandemic. It was all gaining a sheen of nostalgia. It came on like a morning frost to make everything sparkle, though it was all cold and sharp. Lily described it to her therapist, she was always so positive. She talked about the chocolates and time together as a family, watching TV. There was a lot to celebrate still. We wanted to believe that, but it was a far-away feeling with wings like faith you can’t entirely trust, you have to breathe hope into it to make it fly.



Categories: Memoir, microblogging, writing

Tags: , , , , , ,

16 replies

  1. So many words have changed their social stance today. We always wanted to be ‘positive’ but now run from it. Hope it’s only temporary.
    Appreciate the way you express your thoughts.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. a survival technique. like remembering an old boyfriend, but only the good parts and romanticizing it. helps your heart to get through it and move on.

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  3. Nostalgia distances us from the present by looking backwards. I guess forward focussed, or anticipated nostalgia does the same job. Looking towards a time with less fear, less uncertainty. An unknown New World.

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  4. That’s a damn fine description of it, son. Today is Thursday, and I’m finding them hardest, maybe because the week no longer feels like it’s made up of specific days now. The weekend — the real weekend — breaks the spell a bit because there’s official permission to do nothing. We’ve been watching a movie together as a family the past evenings. I thought we had settled on The Godfather but that transformed into Paddington by the time I had sat down. Then Paddington 2 the next evening. I regret nothing. Last night, we began the Harry Potter series, which I have never seen. The others have, and they’re very sweet about not saying anything, making sure to pause when I leave the room for pet/food-related reasons.
    Everything we think, we’re having to rethink.
    This went on… Glad you’re well.

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    • Hey you, this comes like a letter from an old friend, thanks. I hear you on the days. I worked through last weekend (which is rare for me) so my internal clock keeps thinking we should be farther along than we are. Yesterday I took the family out for a short drive, just to drive around…we talked about self-actualization. Charlotte kept her AirPods in and didn’t really engage. I cooked and we too watched TV. I guess video game consoles are especially hard to find now. Good for you, you’ve got Potter. That will buoy you about half way across this ocean, hopefully…or far enough you’ll lose sight of the shore.

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  5. Nicely done, Bill, and that last sentence definitely lifts off the ground.

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  6. A story that I heard as a child that’s stayed with me is about a man traveling from one town to another. He had to spend a night alone in the forest, cold, alone, uncomfortable on the rocky ground, and afraid, but when he finally fell asleep he had a dream that in the morning he should pick up all the pebbles he could carry. The next morning he filled his pockets with pebbles, and when he emerged from the forest they all turned to gold.
    Here’s hoping that when we come through this–and it will be a different but, I hope, happier world–we’ll carry happy memories of what was good, and that even the things that weren’t so good will be remembered with an odd fondness.

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    • That’s beautiful Christopher, thank you. I think you’re in Nashville? I hope you’re hanging in there. I’ve been enjoying your posts regularly for many weeks now, finally figured out its easier to Like using the Reader. I’m a slow adopter. Thanks for sharing that story with the pebbles, that’s a keeper (you story-teller, you). Be well, Bill

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  7. I tend to look upon these days as retirement done poorly. I don’t think it will evoke nostalgia.

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Words full of hope for a better tomorrow and past left behind, striking a chord in fellow humans, Bill. Perhaps, there is something call fate if we choose to and the nostalgia to equip us with strength.

    Liked by 1 person

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