swimming in the stream of conciousness

It’s half past eleven at night. Here I am, lying in bed, trying to doze off into a sweet sleep.

I just clicked on Jessie’s beautiful illustration blog: everydayillustrated.wordpress.com

I love her coffee cup sketch. It reminds me of New York and how we paraded around the city with a paper cup of coffee 70% of the time we were there. I’m not even kidding. We made 2 stops/day. You say it’s frivilous, but we say it’s necessary–a part of the cultural experience.

And that reminds me of my family, and the way we always always drink coffee together. I mean pots and pots of it. And how we can never go anywhere without thinking about the next coffee stop. And how that is probably excessive, but nobody cares because that’s how we have always been.

And that reminds me of how I really miss my family. I miss our 3 hour long weeknight dinners. And I miss all of our circuitous conversations–chock full of non sequiturs,  side dialogue and random interjections of foreign languages. You call it chaos, but it is completely normal and somehow relaxing where I come from.

And that reminds me of the Singleton St. house in the spring and summer. We would open the windows and have dinner parties on the back porch–lit by citronella candles and white twinkle lights. And all of our friends would come over and sit and talk and laugh for hours and hours.

And that reminds me of old friends. And how I have so many good, old friends. People I will always love and think about, even if I don’t get to see them or speak to them that much.

And that just reminds me of how rich a life I lead. And how it’s bittersweet the way that everything has to change and move so quickly. But it’s beautiful and precious and worth reflecting on, even if it does make me a little sad.

I hope I fall asleep and dream about those dinner parties on Singleton. And that house that never failed to smell like coffee. And our spontaneous dance parties. And the way music always flowed through the home. And how we always had company–some of which we had to hide from (not you, of course…). And the way my mom managed to make everything look and taste better than it actually was. And how my dad made the yard so beautiful. And in my dream, Angus won’t be tied to a rope in the carport–he’ll be healed of his blindness and running free through that beautiful yard.

The end.

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