24 August, 2011  |   Comment

When I was three

Helen Jane, Clare and two yellow sundresses

My grandpa bought me an orange typewriter.
I type and type and type.
The ink is purple.

My mom tells me over and over
I called it a type-a-writer.
She loves that story.
Type-a-writer.

My grandpa smells like cigars.
My grandma smells like Jean Nate.

Mentges family, Easter 1980

I was often grumpy and frustrated.
That’s the worst part about being three.
I knew that other people were making choices that I couldn’t.

And now I know,
Now I (k)now,
I get to make the most choices
now.

As I age, I get to make fewer and fewer choices.
So I’d better make these count.

No pressure.

Helen Jane, Clare, October 1978

I just want to make sure that I get the most out of this choice party.

Wouldn’t that be fun? A choice party? Where you bring the top five choices you’re trying to make and get input from your besties over some ginger ale and maybe rum and some Choice USDA beef? What would your top choices on your mind be? Would just writing them down answer them for you?


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