Fool's Spring in anticlimatic

Felt like I had so much to say until I sat down to say it.

For some reason my mind has been lingering on my pre adolescent years as of late, a period of time I’ve never been prone to dwelling on. Those were the very bored years, I think. The lockdown years. The wait for your mother to stop at the credit union and the post office years. Waiting in the back seats of cars; in neglected corners of rooms with a coral of greased community toys; in your own living room; in your bed- everywhere. Everywhere a wait-wait.

Got me thinking about the country, in the summer. Sitting in the passenger side of a truck with the window down, frozen in time to the sound of cicadas and distant adult murmurings. Time stood still. Blue skies and lingering clouds above- long fields of grey sun brittle straw crackling sometimes in the breeze. There is something very unnerving about the feeling of time standing still, for it is an obvious lie.

Been dwelling on another aspect of the same. My old house- my family. Baby siblings and capable parents running the world with other capable parents. That house and my mother’s creative decorations, my father’s constant projects and improvements, my siblings all coming of age and so full of promise and potential.

I want to go back there, just to visit- Willoughby style. I can still remember with absolute clarity what a glass of water tasted like in front of my old refrigerator at 9:00 PM on a Sunday. I remember what the bathroom felt like after my dad took a shower. I miss having very little stake in the world, and watching it be run by other people- people who seemed to have a fairly good handle on what they were doing.

Enough of a handle on things, at least, that I need not worry about anything and can indulge the luxury of boredom. Nine year old eyes dreaming out the window of a parked car.