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Monday, July 25, 2016
I hadn’t looked at my high school yearbooks in years. There was no need. That was then. This is now. I had moved on. Or so I thought.
As I reached up into the living room cabinet and took one down, I could feel the memories flooding back. Opening the cover, I could hear the spine crackling, as if the book was an ancient artifact, fragile from years of storage.
I felt a sense of dread come over me. Sure, there were some good times back then, but buried in that book were memories that haunted me right down to the core of my soul. These were not just a few bad moments. These were the kinds of ghosts that I had spent years trying to exorcise from my mind, the kinds that would keep me locked up in a prison of guilt and shame, remorse and regret.
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
I looked around me at the women in the pool, watching as their gray-haired heads bobbed up and down to the beat of the loud music. Their wrinkled, sagging skin told me they had at least 10 or 20 years on me, and yet I was the one struggling to keep up.
When we finally got to the end of class, I commented to one lady, “Wow, this water aerobics isn’t for sissies, is it?” She just shrugged and smiled. She was there every day. To her, it was no biggie. To me, this was more than a struggle. It was a matter of life and death.