It occurs to me, just now, that it is October. That means it
has been seven years that I have done this navel-gazing that is called “blogging.”
Real people don’t blog anymore. They tweet. And Instagram. And ask.fm, if they
are 14 and in the mood to bully. Or maybe they just exist.
I exist. Still. What propelled me to blog seven years ago is
not what propels me to blog now. (I find it curious that it took me three times
to spell “blog” correctly. Instead, I typed “glob.” Twice. Is that what
blogging really is?)
When I started, it was to keep family far away updated on
the goings-on of my offspring, none of whom had yet hit double-digits. But only
just barely. That 9-year-old-nearly-10 is now nearly 17. And the best I can
give him and his 15-year-old sister and 11-year-old brother is nothing more
than archives.
This is me. Only me. It is who I am. It is who you need to
know when you see a therapist at 25 or 32 or 46. Fallible beyond belief. I
cannot emphasize that enough. Your mother is merely mortal, a condition you
have surely come to recognize.
Only me.
But that me continues, until the end of my time, to love you
unashamedly, unabashedly, passionately until that asteroid hits in sometime in the
2800s, earth time.
I would give anything to believe that I will live on in you.
That you will live on in me. But we won’t. Because we will end, and with atoms
dispersed throughout this planet, we will grasp that asteroid. And our atoms
will go on.
But we will not. I will not. You will not.
The worst part? I accept that. Will you?
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