Wine of Memories
Memories can age like fine wine or they can become bitter. We are just bags of memories walking around, telling our stories. Some memories are straightforward, but like dreams they can be layered into meaning.
I remember days like this where the clouds clumped in the sky and the rain fell halfway down the sky. The droplets would die in the dry air before they hit the ground, leaving the ground day. I remember a day like this when Otto would stand on the balcony, watching the sky and the birds with a cup of coffee in his hand.
I would lean against him and smelling his person scent-- of flour, yeast, and baking bread. This was his time to start the day calm. I remember that it was Otto who told the doctors that the corticorsteroids were messing with my head.
The doctors had me on very high dosages of prednisone that threw me into hell. I was having walking nightmares and couldn't get relief of them either in the day or night. Without Otto, I would have been put in a mental institution because of how I reacted to the medication.
It was during those days that he would tell me to hold onto one good memory because the meds had re-wired my brain to paranoia and hell. Even the knives talked to me about the sweet release of death. It took me years after being weaned down to a better level to re-wire my brain back to seeing goodness instead of evil.
After his death, I needed mental help to pull through the grief. It was a kind family counselor who dealt with grief and chronic illness in mainly children and teens who helped me heal myself by just listening to my memories.
There is one thing I've learned in my lifetime and it is that diversity is not from the color of your eyes. It comes from the diversity of experience. So every afternoon I sit with a diverse group of seniors who were entertainers, military, or travelers and we swap our stories.
I make new memories that I can hold onto -- good memories.