It is approximately the eleventh anniversary of the day I began writing my big bad book. It currently stands at 103,741 words. I might have finished it by now, but I haven’t written anything since Foxy died.
When we first got Foxy, we didn’t have furniture yet. My dad was in the process of moving out and my mom didn’t want a dog at her house, so I slept in my dad’s empty house with her.
It’s easier to forget that I have another life on the other side of the ocean than to admit I’ve been neglecting that life. I’ve spoken more french over the last year than I have spoken to my mom at all. It’s only now, with a week of classes left to my entire university experience that I’m being forced to see how much damage I’ve done to my home life.
Note: I wrote this on December 22nd, 2015 after a visit while I was home for the holidays. Being the holidays, I was busy and got distracted before I could put it up. I forgot about it until now, but here it is at last. It’s just a short piece. Hope you like it.
My grandfather should have died ten years ago. Instead, he sits before me in his kitchen.
Yesterday I said I would be braver, so today I’m going to write about what scares me more than anything: my feelings.
That was supposed to be funny. Things are never funny when I try to make them funny. It’s a curse, really.