Most of all I want a place of my own. Small is ok. Affordable is a must. A patio or garden area. A space for my art table. (It’s been 3 years of living under other peoples’ roofs. Trying not to show my ungratefulness but it’s hard to have my own life when I am immersed in theirs.)
I want my arbutus tree back. I planted it as a 5-inch sapling and it’s now a 30-foot beauty. I would have it today if I could have moved it with me wherever I went. I’ve moved 1.25 times per year in my life. Gawd I’m tired of moving.
I want the smashed pieces of my flower-bud glass candle holder made in Orrefors Sweden. I could glue it back together piece by piece.
I want the whimsical, crazy-coloured fish dish back. I’d like to collect all the ceramic shards from up off the floor to piece it back together.
I’d like my 42-foot C&C sailor boy back in my arms – – ha, that’s not likely to happen.
I’d like to catch in my arms and hug both my bare-naked toddlers running around the yard. It’s the same yard in Campbell River (CR) that the arbutus is in.
I want my sister back, but only the way that she loved me and allowed me to be different from her instead of the sister that scrutinizes and judges and disrespects me.
Want my dad back. Back to the powerful man he once was.
I want my energetic young-at-heart mom back. Back to her usual solidly grounded. lovingly empathetic, matriarch of our family.
But time passes and with age comes the sagging memories. And families fragment and dissolve.