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I didn’t want to…

This was not the best of mornings.

After walking in the door about midnight after a long day of west-to-east flying home from Seattle, I didn’t want to get up early. When I did, I didn’t want to go on my walk, and after sucking it up and heading out the door, I didn’t want to pick up trash because, after a week away I knew what would be awaiting me.

And it was.

Some welcome home. A solid bag and a half full of refuse.

Some welcome home. A solid bag and a half full of refuse.

It didn’t take long to get back in the groove; i.e. a profanity now and then (then again, Coors Light and Bud Light cans, Coca Cola cups and Deer Park water bottles will bring out the worst), plus the expected finds of assorted polystyrene and dozens of other shards of plastic. (Unexpected was the lid to a large Rubbermaid bin.)

It’s good to be back. Too bad so many ‘old friends’ were waiting for me.

About Dave Bradley (264 Articles)
I was a writer by trade so one would think letters would come easily for me. It is so now, but wasn't always that way. Indeed, the first letter was written the Monday after Ellen started her freshman year in college. For years I've wondered - with no good answers - why I swiveled my office chair toward my computer screen to fire up a word processing document for that first letter. I just don't know. I just did. Perhaps it was the angst of separation or wanting to say things that had gone unsaid at that moment when we parted ways in front of her college dormitory. What was a one-off became habitual. When her brother Reid enrolled in the same college, his name was added to the salutation line. They were kids then and are adults now. No matter. The letter writing habit remains so today. I live in Brevard, North Carolina. I'm well away from where they live and don't see them nearly as often as I'd like. That's why letters, at least to me, fill the void of distance. The pages give me something to say and the space to say it. There is no assurance they read the letters; indeed, I have never asked if they do so. With the pace of their busy lives who could blame them for letting a letter sit unopened? Over time, it has dawned on me that the letters are both communicative - and cathartic. By nature, letters are about the writer; the writer can only write about their situation. Perhaps that is as it should be. It's all about the here and now from one person's perspective.

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