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That one %#$*&@ bag…

Path walkers log: on my route at 6:17 a.m.

Of all the Saturday mornings to sleep in, this would have been it.

Up after midnight yet wide awake at 4:30. I really wanted to sleep in, or at least stay in bed, for once in my sordid existence.

But yesterday I spied an empty tall kitchen bag with a red tie strap snagged on a trunk of a tree along the sidewalk I patrol. So rather than roll over and attempt to dream of other things, I thought about that one single bag. I hauled my sorry carcass up and out of the sack and went downstairs to get my coffee started.

The bag of my dreams is upper right. The other junk was just along for the ride.

The bag of my dreams is upper right. The other junk was just along for the ride.

The bag wasn’t all that far from the house; perhaps 600 yards into my walk. It was the first thing I retrieved but surely not the last.

As I sit on the couch writing this, part of me still wishes for the gift of sleep. But the bag couldn’t wait. Sleep can.

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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