I'm in the second to last chapter of my life. Tom cringes every time I say that, but it's most likely true, unless, that is, the book of me has an early surprise ending. My ninety-one-year-old mother is in her last chapter, but her book is way too long for me. If I had to live through 33, 365 pages, by the end I'd be exhausted, cranky, and loopy.
It's not that I want the book of me to end, but I know it must. It's the way of things. All good books must come to an end, and so far mine--except for a few inconveniences along the way--has been very good. I realize that there have been billions of tomes penned before mine, and there will be billions more after I'm gone, but mine is special. Why? Because it's mine.
Everyone has a book of them. From the peasant who picked weeds in King Henry VIII's garden to the great-grandmother of Prince George Alexander Louis, from the caveman who discovered fire to the inventor of the atom bomb, from you to me, we all have a special cache of stories to pass along to those following behind us on the treadmill of life.
Today I'm on page 24,785. I woke up this morning and immediately stretched myself into five minutes of very painful leg cramps. After the cramps subsided, I thought about getting up, but the room was spinning from an episode of benign paroxysmal positional vertigo. I thought that annoying ringing in my one good ear was from the alarm clock until I realized I don't have an alarm clock. So I'm afraid that page 24,785 in my book will be blank. I'm going back to sleep, and hopefully I can pick up where I left off with that handsome Hugh Jackman and the Wolverines. It seems my dreams have better stories these days.
Welcome to Western North Carolina...Trout Central!
14 years ago
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