Why I write

Sometimes I sit down and try to start writing only to be come frustrated. Everything seems so wickedly and impressively monotonous with a dash of insanity included. There are always thoughts, always, formulating in my head that keep me awake at night. Who am I, where am I, where am I going? Is there a purpose? Is there really a God? Heaven? Should I stay? Should I go? Why do I care what people think about me, why should I care when they call me crazy? Should I pretend like I’m happy? Am I happy?

These thoughts plague my mind and pull me away from the ever needed sleep that I so desperately require. I try so hard to pretend like I’m completely content with my life, but I think that I write so that way I wont miss things about it. If I write it down, if I expose these memories to the page, then I won’t miss them later, because they will be right there for me when I need them. I dream in technicolor; I dream in absolutes and possibilities hopeful that they will come true. If I talk enough about my childhood to people, if I tell them about the being a kid, then those memories won’t fade. If I can keep them alive by telling stories then those little pieces of me won’t die.

So, I’m going to tell you a story, because I don’t want this story to die. No, it’s not a love story, and no, it doesn’t have a happy ending, but its the last image I have of her, and the image I don’t want to forget.

It was January and it was so cold outside. The sun, while it shown bright, wasn’t comforting enough with its rays to be able to stay outside much longer than a few minutes. I was happy; contemptuously happy, but a little nervous. In less than three weeks I was going to be giving myself away for what I thought was forever.

I was with my Grandma, my Nonnie, and I was talking to her about keeping my dog, Skylar, while we were away in St. Lucia. I needed someone to take care of my dog and if there was someone who would be there for me at the drop of a hat, it was her. We were sitting at the kitchen table chit-chatting and talking, as we always did, about important things and about mindless things. Her table was always covered with seasonal place mats, her house was almost like a Martha Stewart Magazine; it was always perfect, like her. I was fumbling and fidgeting, talking to her about my wedding and talking to her about my new life that I was about to start. There were a lot of things, a lot of questions, that I had to ask her – she was my guide. She was was the pin that held the wheel of my life together. She was the strongest person I had to lean on and she let me lean on her every day. Sometimes, when it’s really quiet, I can close my eyes and listen deep enough within myself and I can still hear her voice.

It was time for me to leave, time for me to head back up to Marietta. I was standing at her front door with her when she picked up my dog and held her in her arms. She was scratching Skylar’s head saying, “you’re going to come stay with Grandma soon!” and she was smiling. She kissed me on my head, we said our love you’s and good-byes and I left. I never got to see her again. The last image I have of the most amazing woman I’ve ever know is her standing in the hallway, with the sun shining through the windows around her, holding my dog and smiling.

I can remember her smile, her blue, blue eyes. I can remember laughing with her and smiling with her. I remember weekends and night time Oreo cookies in the kitchen with her. I remember planting things in her garden and going to pumpkin patches with her. I remember her, so much of her, and I never want to let her go. If there was ever someone that I could ask for one more moment with, it would be her.

I write so I wont forget memories. I write because if I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll forget…

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