I think it is truly worth ruminating on why certain memories will always remain fresh.
Why is it that I remember it like it was yesterday, when at 9, being a girl who had been introduced to the woes of love and poetry at an early age was told by my 4th grade teacher's assistant, "If you don't stand up and talk, you'll never find a love like that" ?
I even recall vividly which poem of mine she was referring to. It was about my dog, but she didn't know that.
My personal medical philosophy is that emotion is ingested, stored, and sieved through the bowels.
Therefore my medical problem, IF I have one, must be that my bowels encase misery mongers, holding on to what they ought not to, as though it were a savory nut. And they keep it there for a while until they know they've made me sick. That is why my bowels shut down when there is too much grief ingested. And that's why then I can't breathe deeply, as the mounting piles of bad "nuts" are cluster fucking the walls of my intestines, and crowding my lungs.
I ought to be a doctor.
I ought to let go of stress. This week needs to dissipate into the past and even though we'll get through it "easy peasy japanesey"(as my 4 year old goddaughter would say), thinking about it holds a lot of weight over one so small. There is a lot of love going around but even at my young age, it's difficult to pretend things will be easier than they seem, even when you know it's true.
Sometimes I want to take my brain out and pet it.