bonfire from the night before

These last couple of years I’ve been visited regularly by memories of my childhood. Vivid, clear memories. Like then is now. Memories stretching up through my 20’s and 30’s. Even beyond. Earlier this morning I had the visual memory of walking sort of catty-corner across High Street and paying Kenny Page $18 for his bike, a three-speed, reddish-maroon beauty with normal handle bars. Not the kind of handle bars curled way down used by junkie racers, or the way high in the air sort favorited by wooly mammoth mtorcycle dudes and chicks. Regular old comfortable handle bars. I was probably 13 or 14, maybe 12.

Someone mentioned to me a few months back that this occurrence of a stream of memories from the long-ago past may be a sign of early onset of dementia. That’s kind of a bummer thought, and to think like that is not me. How would I know, anyway? I see it more like standing in a brightly-lit meadow, the edges of which are too far to make out, being gifted with a now-ness of that then-ness. Time folded over rather than plain old linear. And especially here, the day before Thanksgiving.

I was able to wake up again. Put all 10 toes on the floor. Make some intentions for the day. Sit on a cushion, and drink lovely coffee I was able to buy by the pound. Visited, again, by Kenny’s/my bike. And a cheerleader from Bourne High School.

Not too bad at all.