A Memory of the Old World
Midway through the journey of my life, I’ve returned to a memory of years prior, when I ate a succulent ossobuco at the Old World, in celebration of the day I was born. The meat falling from the bone. My father sat across from me urging me to enjoy life. It must have been my 30th. It couldn’t have been my 40th. A year of lockdowns and catastrophe, a year that accordioned into the next. Vanishing the same way the exactness of this memory has disappeared. Everything slips away from us. Even the Old World no longer exists and my father is gone now too. Midway through the journey of my life I ate at a European restaurant In a rural floral Floridian city. A place my father loved, though he’d never been to Europe. How much of life is the process of one thing being replaced by another? The fineness of a memory disintegrating through time’s sieve. We don’t recognize how everything we love is impossible to hold onto. How the mourning doves, a constant soundtrack of our childhood, no longer call out to us.
I am reminded daily of the effects of great change. New friends become old friends, then move away. Or a place I once fancied, closed. Our bodies, well I won't delve into that one. Change is rarely easily accepted and can be quite challenging. But, we move along; reminiscing. Thanks my friend for the post.
This reminded me to do something...