A few days ago, I was taking a break from writing and came across a post on Reddit. It has lingered in my mind for several days. User DmitriyBragin shared five before and after photos of what the war has done to his home in a post titled, “My hometown Kharkov in Ukraine 2022-2022.”
A small statue rests in a field in western Nebraska.
I sat behind my computer last Friday waiting for the latest installment of Supreme Court decisions. I do this regularly during each session to see what the court has ruled on.
I opened a tab to the Supreme Court website where decisions are posted, then opened another tab to the SCOTUSblog website, where a live text feed is available when decisions are handed down.
Tuesday morning was windy. It was so windy, I mentioned to Paul if I was still living in New York, I’d think a hurricane was coming, but this is western Nebraska, so it was just windier than usual. It would also turn out to be a good day.
Londo patiently waits for kitty treats.
Sometimes, I wonder if what I write here is worthwhile and if anyone cares. Other times, I think, “this is my blog. I’ll write whatever I want,” but there is always a nagging thought at the back of my head wondering if what I do matters.
On a recent day out exploring northwest Nebraska, my friend and I were chatting and he told me he was thankful for the writing I do here. He does not have PTSD or experience depression. He said he was once the type of person who would wonder why people who are depressed don’t just snap out of it and get on with things, but through my writings, he has come to learn it isn’t so easy.
On September 28, 2021, I had a flashback. I wrote about it the next morning, but didn’t really know what to do with it until last night.
Although I have two things written, I am choosing not to post either this week. I may not ever post them as they are far too angry for the world to see in their current form.
With a high of 88°F for the day, temperatures had settled into the mid-70s, promising a cool evening for the fourth of July fireworks. My mom, and technically me, were all set for the show. She settled into her lawn chair, a cool drink in hand when things began to change.
Eighteen months ago, I was placed on a shelf and watched as humans picked up those around me to take home to their loved ones. I didn’t think anyone was ever going to pick me. Three months later, Irene came along and took me home.
My eyes were fixated on the clock. It read 7:43 a.m. Karla would be knocking on my door soon. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, we walked together to Bessey Hall. She had a class and I went into the Anthropology lab to clean and label artifacts.
I was stretched out on the couch under my bald eagle blanket. I stared at the red numbers on the digital clock and watched it turn to 7:44 a.m. There was a bang on my door. My eyes rapidly shifted to my doorknob. Did I remember to lock the door last night?
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