When I flip through my pictures from the summer, I’ll remember picking blueberries, but I might forget how the five-year-old took charge of the three-year-old and two-year-old and how much easier it was in 2014 than it was in 2013. I’ll see it was sunny, but I might not remember how foggy and cool it was that morning when we set out through the hills and back roads. I might forget the singing of rounds that paced our work as we sorted and how I sang the songs over and over, teaching the girls and making up my own verses to “Hey Ho, Nobody Home” in the car until they begged me to stop. One of the reasons I write is to remember.
This is my picture, my story. What’s yours?
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