Leave me alone, memories

Why is it that every time fall comes around I have to go through this horrible/wonderful melancholy ache? Memories from all the moments of my life come rushing in at me, demanding that I stop my usual thought process of kids and cleaning, writing and caffeine or food. I get it. Life, for all its bad moments, was pretty cool and worth remembering, but I have things to do. I can't always push pause just to remember the day Kelly Yelton and I pushed her dad's hot rod through the fall parade when its engine stopped working. I can't stop folding the clean sheets just because a picture of Julia at one year with the wind blowing through her baby fine, feathery soft hair under a clear blue sky comes into my mind. Or Liam when I brought him home from the hospital and the world had changed from hot and dusty, to a cold wind blowing crisp leaves through the backyard.

Every memory has its own shock of pain that flashes inside me relentlessly, telling me the obvious: that life is constantly changing, growing. Children . . . babies grow and you can't ever go back to that bittersweet joy that is so pure and new. You must accept that they are on a track that leads them away, every moment, every day, every year.

And the friends I had, and the memories we shared which seemed so solid and unbreakable, are now just faded photos inside my thoughts.

I will ache. And time will change.

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