Abigail Thomas

Word Count 266

How could I remember a man I barely knew who ate a few mayflies just to see what all the fuss was about, and have zero memory of a cod fisherman my sister remembers and says I knew too. You’d think a cod fisherman would loom large in my memory but no such luck. All you have to do is eat a few mayflies. I have decided not to get upset at all the obviously large moments that have vanished from my past. I can still count backward from one hundred by sevens and get my clothes on properly and enjoy my own company. I’m at home with myself. 

I’ll admit to a bit of a turn the other night when I realized as my eye went easy over things I love in the room where I sit,  that one day this will all be stripped from the walls and dispersed, because I will be dead and the house will belong to somebody else, and their stuff will go up on the walls, and fill these rooms. I did feel a bit odd, as if everything I love was suddenly at an unfamiliar angle, but I got over it pretty quickly. Eighty will do that for you.  And over there is the candied apple red urn my friend Chuck gave me years ago, telling me the saleslady has assured him my ashes would fit nicely. Having decided that’s where I’ll be, I can gaze across the room at my final dwelling, and from time to time, depending on the news, almost look forward to the move.

Abigail has four children, twelve grandchildren, one great grandchild, two dogs, and a high school education. Her books include Safekeeping; A Three Dog Life; and What Comes Next and How to Like It. She lives in Woodstock, NY.