Bear with me. I think I might be going somewhere with this blog, but I need to orient myself first.
I find I must utter the day of the week out loud because I can’t track. This was a problem before chaos struck. Now it’s an ingrained personality flaw.
Today is Sunday.
Tomorrow is Monday.
Really? Already? I just wrote about those socks… a week ago. Yeah. Already. It’s time.
This is Blog Post 289. I really love the blog. Got a nice streak going. Pushing 300 posts now. Either a post or a short story every Monday since June of 2018.
Tomorrow is Memorial Day. This means remembering our Servicemen and women who gave all so we can enjoy bountiful freedoms, like freedom of speech.
Which, to others’ dismay, I exercise on the regular.
The cemetery I frequently walk in has exploded in color with all the remembering—flags on the fallen ones’ stones and fresh, bright flowers on many, many others, proving that on this day, we don’t only remember our fallen military; we remember our fallen. Period.
Our gang has lost three significant people in eight months. Six in less than a year if you count good friends, which I do.
I’ve learned grief is a strange beast, rarely tamable. It’s not easily bossed around, no matter the day. No matter that there’s a blog to write. No matter if your body says, “Let’s rest.” Grief wraps itself around a part of your brain and whispers, “No. We must… do something.”
So sometimes, the beast decides what gets tackled next, first, or abandoned. Sometimes, I must heed or the fallout symptoms are unbearable.
Therefore, today is shoe day. That means starting in on my mother’s tangible items with what feels like one tangible, doable task and seeing it through to completion: Her shoe collection.
They’re everywhere. Hanging from racks on doors to the point that the doors wouldn’t swing all the way open. In totes. Under the bed. In closets. Shed. Garage.
Everywhere.
Shoes.
A friend helped or I’d have bailed on the project at three different spots. The grief beast says, “Yes, all the shoes. And did you see that corner? That closet? Oooh. The cabinet! All the Not-Shoe things?”
The friend helps me stay focused on what we’re there to do. Shoes. That’s it. The beast grumbled, but it subsided as my SUV filled and the task neared completion.
We bring the shoes to my house to get them somewhat sorted so I can see what I’m dealing with.
I lost count around 212 pairs; she could very well have 289. My mother really loved shoes. Had a nice streak going. Pushing 300. Perhaps she bought a pair every Monday since June 2018.
I utter out loud to orient myself. “Memories are in your head, not in the stuff.”
That mantra will likely morph into some odd personality flaw by the time this clean-out is over.
But today is Sunday. Gotta get the blog done even though I just wrote about socks.
Now shoes.
Tomorrow is Memorial Day.
We’ll remember our Servicemen and women who gave everything so we could enjoy bountiful freedoms—like shoe shopping at will.
Which my mother exercised on the regular…
