My buddy George and I took a break from writing the last couple of days. Well, I wrote less. George the Goodwill Monkey has kept me company when I sit down to visit the lands of my imagination. My absence probably caused him to fret some.
“Where have you been,” he would probably ask. IF, he had the ability to speak. “Why haven’t you written anything?” Thank God, George can’t speak. I would hate to lie to him.
The truth is that I have written several things. I’ve waxed political and written several pieces concerning moral decay and the descent of my country, of the pandemic and the never-ending fear peddling.
Sometimes, you must back up and wash your hands of it. I even went so far as to publish it, but I changed my mind. So, I went to work on my shop. The shop was a project of my dad’s. He had a dream of what it would look like.
Then, he passed.
I haven’t been able to visit it very often, although I live right down the road from it. Memories of our laughter, and of me nearly killing myself on the ladder is very strong there.
In the quiet whisper of the wind, I can hear our conversation. My dad laid out his plan in detail as we rested under the metal roof.
“I’m going to put two roll-up doors, one on each end. Then, Possum, I’m going to block off these ends and put windows at the top. That way, the natural light can filter in. What do you think?”
“Sounds nice, dad. Sounds like a whole lot of work.”
He scrunched up his nose at me. “It ain’t going to be that bad.”
I was overweight and out of shape, but I wanted to help him fulfill his dream. He was so excited. My dad’s eyes would sparkle when he was excited or laughing. I can see them now, and I miss him.
I’ll get his shop built. It is what he wanted, and I wanted it for him. Thank God for good memories. They make tough times bearable.