The story of my life comes to me as a dream, as substantive as wispy clouds drifting across the sun creating no shadow at all; coffee has more substance, black and not quite bitter. Do people see me as coffee or cloud shadow? I cannot get outside myself enough to imagine how I may be perceived. I feel sometimes stuck inside, behind these eyes of mine. What I see in the mirror can stir despair or self-satisfaction in equal measure over the number of my days.
And that is a point is it not the number of our days? Curiosity and fear tear at me when I recall there is a website wherein one can have calculated the number of one’s days. Who would do this I wonder? To me it shrieks of voodoo and bone pointing. If I knew my number what would I do? If it were small? If it were small and counted to only next year, next week, tomorrow?
I drag myself from depression’s pits and put on my Happiness For No Reason little smile and watch the clouds and sun play, listen to the birds, feel the warmth of a loved one. Not for me to know the number of my days and yet I have not forgotten the site exists…
And so the strong memories tell me my life thus far. Climbing fragrant blossomed cedar trees in September’s heat revitalised by the glorious scent of rain on dusty earth. Many Septembers later my first snow and all the unbelievable excitement as it came hand in hand with the new adventure of mountain living. Cups of tea with my best friend – when will that be again? Sunrise from the Coat Hanger. The new/familiar first sight of my forever love. Looking in the rear vision mirror and seeing a police car, by the river in Nimbin. The Great Australian Bite. My prefect rosebud daughter who is still and always the Princess of my heart. Tiny trusting hand of my Angel son toddling beside me in the sand. Love beneath Orion’s Summer diamonds. Cat’s soft fur and loving looks. Pansy face garden rainbows. Elegant beauty of Japanese maple in all it’s seasons. Misty days. The warm joy when my growing children express their intelligence, humour and compassion. Breakfast cooked for me. Tears merely a bucket of rain over the number of my days.