My days have taken on a strange Matrix-like dreamy quality. It is the clacking rattle of a rollercoaster almost at the apex; the rumbles of thunder before the Spring rains kiss the landscape. The uncertain quivering of the psyche as something new and unfamiliar is approached.
Conversations with my boys and my daughter ring with echoes of sweetness. I make a mental note to remember this moment, knowing that I won’t remember the specifics, but hoping to remember the look on their faces, the kiss of sunlight and the gentle breeze tousling their hair.
I learned at a young age that rollercoasters were something to be feared. “You’ll get sick!” was the never-failing reply for why I couldn’t ride. As a teen I cringingly, mincingly placed my unsettled self in a seat and grudgingly enjoyed myself. The moment would ultimately be killed by a clueless Navy Squid who asked me “Why did you scream?”
I think it’s time to take The Children to ride a roller coaster.
The very first time I rode a roller coaster was in 2005. Drew convinced me it would be OK. I screamed bloody murder.