I wake up groggy and disoriented. The family has gone, and the sun is lower in the sky. With thoughts on my mind, I grab my journal and pen and start to write.
“The sound of a crackling fire mimics the breeze brushing gently against the leaves. The breeze picks up to the wind, muddling the sound of an airplane flying overhead. The Mockingjay cackles to his neighbor in the reeds. Why am I here?”
I read what I wrote, and I’m critical. What if someone read this? So, I move on to another thought.
“On the hike in, I noticed the thought, “This is hard” then changed it to “This is easy.” Try not to think about what you’ll do when you get there. Think about here and what you’re going to do here. Or better yet, don’t think or do, and just be.”
As I often do in diaries and journals, I sign my name. I close the journal, place it and the pen under my pillow, lay back on the floatie, and ponder what to do next.
Death is an interesting animal. Unexpected is the relief and hopefulness that arrives sometime after, like a dear old friend knocking at the door. The tendency might be to feel guilty; how is it okay to feel like a kid waiting to get into Disneyland at that time?
Before my Mom’s death, she bought a brand-new Camaro. To be sure, I’d tasted the speed of it and experienced the sleekness of its design. With her in the passenger seat and me with my learner’s permit, she and I would blast The Lion King soundtrack – the only CD we had; it was the 90s, after all – over the car’s crystal transparent, booming sound system. Even now, I can still hear the bellowing start of the “Circle of Life,” “Nants ingonyama bagithi baba!”).
Not even three weeks into having a full-on driver’s license, she died. Suddenly and on a routine Sunday evening. I felt shocked as my life turned into an uncrewed ship spinning directionless out at sea.
Nothing changed for a time, but something happened. Oddly, the world kept turning. I kept being a 16-year-old with a head full of dreams, on the verge of launching into a life of my own. Although a large part of my life ended on February 8, 1998, it also transitioned into something different, something new, and it excited me.
And I’ll be damned. That beautiful white, black-leather upholstery, t-top, zero-to-fast car was finally in my reach.
Or so I thought. My Dad had other plans.
Don’t worry; I did get to drive it a few times. Ultimately, it got sold, and in its place appeared a Ford Escort with the get-up-and-go of a golf cart equipped with a dumb cassette tape player.
As I reflect, the journey from then to now reads like a book; it’s profoundly moving, filled with themes of overcoming, courageousness, and transformation. I wouldn’t trade a dang moment of it. As they say, life goes on; it’ll be different and new, but if you’re open to it, it could be unbelievably great, too.
Going On 40 
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