Prompt: 5 minutes. Imagine you will completely lose your memory of 2010 in five minutes. Set an alarm for five minutes and capture the things you most want to remember about 2010.
Myron’s in the shower. Here I go. Timer set. The year slipping away, out of chronology, the way I often think. This year was the year I really wrote; I didn’t screw around. I told myself that I could get done, I would get done. I sat. I sat at the desk, got up from the desk, paced, wrote, erased, wrote some more.
The smell of Ivory soap. Miss Edith. The cat; his illness. Grass jewel green.
The early spring. The days in March leaving the house with just my wool car coat instead of the puffy one. The year I had my first touch of frostbite; all these years here and my skin finally succumbs. The year we drove to Guelph, nearly got in the accident, thought for sure that I would never get out of that car. Rain on the upstairs windows, the cat upending himself when he runs too quickly across the floor.
All the work. The sixty hour weeks, the seventy hour weeks. For him, not me. I worked hard, but not as hard as he did.
Gelato during fireworks at Canada Day. Hotel rooms, here and in Toronto. That amazing shawarma. David Mitchell’s short story, hearing him hear his problems in his text, watching him test words for music and change them. Watching genius happen.
The site. The day that Heather put the photo into the banner, that beautiful old desk full of memories in a beautiful old house. The nerve of us. We have nothing to say that no one else doesn’t already say. And yet we do it, we write it, even on the days when no one else watches. It grows and becomes