memories

I’m sitting in my little attic room with its happy yellow paint and the chimney in the middle. I’ve spent hours upon hours up here, practicing my violin, frantically typing medical reports dictated by doctors who do not know how to enunciate, sewing clothes and writing a novel. I’ve lain awake at night listening to the rain drops falling on the roof above or feeling Dad shake the rafters with his snoring in the room below. I love this little room, and I will miss it. The house is sold.

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I was sixteen. My brother and I were sitting in the living room, trying our best to learn American sign language by signing along with the lady on the video we were watching. I think the video stopped working or something. For one reason or another, we took it out and fooled around with it. As soon as we took it out of the player, we saw that NBC news was on. I was aware of New York City and a lot of smoke.

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This week, my brother celebrates his twenty-sixth birthday. Plus Mother’s Day is coming up shortly after. So, I thought I’d cover them both in one handy blog post.

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When I was five, my Dad decided he needed to go to Bible college. He was a musician, turned Christian, turned public school teacher, turned Christian school teacher and he decided it was time get poorer. So, off we went to a little tiny place called Freedom Farm.

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I was eleven years old in 1996. That Christmas, my parents bought me a journal and put it in my stocking. It was pink...

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