As I sat in my living room this morning, listening to old Creedence Clearwater Revival records, drinking coffee, and awaiting the cable company to come hook up my internet, I smiled in the contentedness of the moment.  It was early.  The coffee was good.  The music drifted through the air, having been trapped in a box for the last few years.  I missed my father, but it wasn’t a wrenching grief type of miss.  I was filled with nostalgia for times past, a place where Tony Martin is now a resident.
I don’t wish to give the impression that my entire life is a ball of sadness and despair.  It isn’t.  I just tend to write when I’m the most grief stricken.  It helps me cope.  I think it’s equally important to write when I’m not going through such a swing of emotion, though; when I look back on this chapter of my life, I want a true representation, not a one-sided misrepresentation.  After all, why else do I write if not for a true accounting of myself? 

Now that I’m firmly out of my one room efficiency apartment and into this classic 1920s era two bedroom house, there are a few things I didn’t realize I missed.  I have a table.  I have a living room big enough to have friends over for a movie night or a card game.  I can hear music drifting from one room to another, bouncing off the hardwood floors and curling around the door frames.  Although mowing is not my favorite activity in the world, once spring hits I’ll be able to sit on my porch and enjoy a job well done. 

Atticus has a lot more room to run around.  As a matter of fact, at the moment he is running from room to room, meowing and playing an invisible cat game that brings him satisfaction.  Life goes on.  My brother came over the other night and we sat and talked awhile.  It was good to spend some time with him; hadn’t really seen him much since Dad’s passing.  Haven’t seen a lot of anyone, actually.  I’m ready to rejoin the world as an intact person today.  I feel good.

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