The memory of my dad’s trumpet. I don’t have many good memories of him, but that’s one of them. Bike rides and summer days lived in the library because our house didn’t have air conditioning. Climbing the trees in my backyard. Moving to a different part of town for high school, feeling like I was telling the story from 90210. Marching band, and cool football night air on my cheeks sunburned from a week of afternoon practices. Music was a big part of those years. Maybe a threatening interaction before I went to Uni, a direct result of my dad’s nefarious activities. Car accident, coma, hard work and a triumphant return to building a life. Dad was cheating again in a way that threatened to put me out of school. This time, for the first time, I have the power to stop him from hurting me, and I do. He hasn’t talked to me since. I get closer to God and deal with health issues stemming from the accident. I backpack in England and Poland, and get a Master’s degree while working full-time. A trombone player from that high school marching band finds me on and we marry, happy to have someone to sit with.
“In any weather, at any hour of the day or night, I have been anxious to improve the nick of time, and notch it on my stick too; to stand on the meeting of two eternities, the past and future, which is precisely the present moment; to toe that line.” H.D. Thoreau
Our wedding, then going to Spain and meditating on the Alhambra grounds. My dissertation research. I keep dealing with issues from the accident, and get my hip replaced. Living by the water where I stand-up paddle board every day, and working at home with my husband. We move further inland, towards the mountains, and buy land. We build a small home and read together under the trees of our land.
(In response to Daily Prompt)