I’m in the doctor’s office waiting for it to be my turn. I grab my journal (just a tiny notebook really) and start writing.
My sinus-clogged breathing reminds me of my 7 or 8-year-old self. I was in church sitting with all the other kids in my class without a handkerchief and had to blow my nose. I was frantic. I tore the lining of my coat pocket and used it as a tissue. I had some explaining to do when I got home!
The sound of pen gliding across the paper reminds me of all the blue book exams I took in college. Trying like mad to get all the information down on paper before it flew out of my head for good.
A cart rolls along the tile floor in the hallway behind my chair and reminds me of being in the hospital and hearing the medication cart being pushed down the hall. When I was a child, I was very worried about having to go into the hospital, especially after my brother, Ray, had surgery to correct “lazy eye.” I haven’t thought about that in years.
The airplane droning in the distance. How I used to wish I could fly away on a magic carpet when I was a kid. Or get away with my Mom and Dad all by myself—no other siblings to steal their attention.
“Eleanor!” It’s my turn. But look at the things I can write about. Maybe they’ll turn into something, maybe they won’t. We’ll see.