the empty aisles

i spent the morning wishing i was scouting.

usually, on a saturday, i’m in the thick of it. i spend hours looking at mid-century tiles and spanish pottery, my eyes trained to find the value in things people decided they didn't need anymore. but today, the "scouting" is all in my head. i’m sitting here, and the gear-shift is jarring. i’m not looking at price tags today; i’m looking at a family tree that has seen better days.

there is a strange, quiet thrum that comes with being 68. you look around and realize the crowd has thinned. we were a pack once—two brothers, three sisters, and the parents who held the map. now, the map is folded up. my parents are gone. my older sister and brother are gone. my middle sister is gone.

it’s just three of us left now. a brother, a sister, and me.

it makes you feel like a "limited edition" in a way that isn't nearly as fun as finding a signed print at the salvation army. you start to wonder who is holding the memories of the 1960s—the specific way the kitchen smelled or the sound of the screen door slamming—if there are fewer and fewer people left to say, "yeah, i remember that."

and then there’s monday.

a triple bypass isn't exactly the kind of "spontaneous" event the name of this blog usually implies. it’s a different kind of being rash. it’s the kind where you have to be brave because there are still stories to tell and goods to scout.

i’m headed into surgery with a lot of ghosts behind me, but i’m leaning on the ones who are still standing here with me.