Most people spend most of their lives building a life. They construct it like a meticulously built house. Activity to memory. Hand to finger. Head to heart. They construct it to be disaster proof. They construct it to keep the warmth in, to keep the memories in, to keep the people in. They construct it so thoroughly, so tightly that the only thing that dissolves it is death. Ironically the painful burden of dismantling said life falls upon the ones that they want to harm the least but for whom it hurts the most. It is unfair really but that is the way of things.
Not me.
I would never do that to my kids. To begin with, I realize that I have raised some soft kids and they don't have the emotional fortitude that trashing a dead mother's belongings requires. And even if they did- they would do it wrong. I would rather tell my own stories and write my own endings.
Ergo-
I build my life in 20 year increments. 0 - 20; 20 - 40; 40 - 60; 60 - 80; 80 -100. I like this habit about myself. This reemergence of self every few decades. Putting together. Taking apart. Putting together. Taking apart. A series with 5 distinct books. Each one good enough to be a stand alone movie. That's my life. A constant shifting. I love it.
It is time to dismantle the 2nd book of my life. As with the first, I am not sad to see it go. I am ready for the next section. I do not mourn what was nor what was before. I just want to wrap it up, say a proper eulogy, kiss it goodbye, and walk away. I have-
Moved off the continent
Said goodbye to my book 2 boyfriends, husbands, and significant others
Written characters out of the story
Accomplished lots professionally, mentally, emotionally, financially, and personally
It all ends at the end. This book is coming to a close.
What is next to conclude this conclusion?
Create a commemorative memory collection (aka photo album with narrations)
Sell the house- or not.
Change my number.
Light the rest on fire.
Walk into the sunset.
"the time has come, the walrus said...."
Dewberry
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