Looking back, but looking back at what?
I fell in love with a blonde in the third grade, sprained an ankle in the fourth.
Caught my first steelhead when I was eleven. Read Tristram Shandy at thirteen.
Looking back, looking at bits and pieces, creating new experiences of old memories of
Nothing in particular.
Are we our history, our bits and pieces? Some would say so.
I don’t know, but the coffee tastes good and my chair is comfortable.