There's a few shreds of me who defy the mature notion of deleting everything I've written over the past three years. Why, it would be a step forward into, "no longer defines me" land, however, those regrets.
Not of what I've written, but of letting other's definitions of "me" surpass the soulful spillings I've allowed myself back then. When I'm fifty years and older, won't I just LOVE to hark back to the period when I lost Cooper, to the steps and stumbles all before then?
Comparing and contrasting parts of myself with myself then, with my children and their accomplishments and feelings? I'd like to think I can keep this private package of rantings and railings, and simple ponderings that are so out of character, or in.
It hurts no one to hold onto this past, to slurp through it on occasion, to be different from everyone else in "I'd never, but you can." It's the you can I have trouble giving myself permission for, when sweeping it away produces more of an I am, and did.
Now, and back then.
