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| I don't remember much about my trip to Douglas a few years ago. I don't remember how I got there, and I can't even figure out how I got home. I had spent part of the week at my grandparents' house, trying to get in touch with old girlfriends from high school. I guess I thought maybe something would rekindle with old flames. Hell, they liked me at one point, how could they not like the new and improved Channing of now? My car was sick and it wouldn't drive forward for some reason, only in reverse. So I said, "fuck it" and drove the car backwards. Unfortunately, I failed to notice a squad car nearby and was issued a ticket. So I parked the car and ceased my opportunity by buying a shitty bike from some drifter for only $5. After the purchase I noticed the tires were flat. | |
| The day before I went home, I wanted to spend time with my father. My cousin Jake went fishing, so that gave Dad and I some alone time. We went to the store to buy some tire tubes, but since it was raining really hard, Dad just drove past the store and east on the highway. Once it stopped raining, he pulled over to the side of the road so we could get a better view of the rainbow blossoming in front of our eyes. I went around the vehicle and stood next to my dad. | |
| He didn't always make the right decisions growing up, he didn't always say the right things, or was there when I needed him the most. But he was still my father. I told him that I loved him and his big sad puppy dog eyes welled up into tears, along with mine. I gave him a hug and told him that I had never been so happy in my life, but still always so sad. | |
| Unfortunately I don't remember anything after that. We probably got the car running, and I eventually got back home, somehow. Who knows what happened to that bike. | |
| And the story goes on and on, until it is no longer a story, but a technique for remembering my life. Facts obscured with time, veiled behind the minds ability to misplace key elements amongst all the stuffing and wires. This memory, like thousands of others, I put on a shelf to revisit later. Because life is fast and busy and hard enough in the present. Not because you want to forget, but because the pain associated with the memory has yet been vindicated by future successes and triumphs. So they become like artifacts, waiting to be dug up by someone else years later, only to be misinterpreted. | |