I carry Catholic guilt, and lots of it.
The memory of how soft my mother's loose curls had become as she aged.
Chicken crocs AKA garden clogs upon my feet as I slop through the muddy and puddly path to the coop. I carry the iphone flashlight steady as the application lights the way.
The scratchy sound of the emery board that my father used to sculpt his perfect nails sending a dusty white powder on his trousers while sitting in his chair with the blare of the Red Sox.
The smell of an orange-newly peeled.
The tension in my jaw as I think about some of my children who unearth various stages of concern and fear for the future.
Prayer.
Breath. Life.
A view from the cove: the barely discernable horizon gray sea meeting gray sky.
I carry lofty hopes to read the toppling stacks of books uninterrupted for days, weeks or even months.
*To be continued.*
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