Monday, April 9, 2012
This morning I spent some time absorbed in an old journal of mine. As I read those words, my thoughts, I felt a great tenderness toward that twenty-something year old self who was writing. I recognized myself, my voice, in the writing, even though I've forgotten most of the thoughts and moments recorded in those pages.
One entry from the late 1990s, in which I recounted a visit with a great aunt and uncle who are no longer living, gave me particular pause. "We discussed the Roosevelts. They thought he was a great president and that 'Hoover was happy just to let everybody starve.' (My great-uncle) Henry remembers Eleanor visiting his unit when he was overseas. He was stationed in Euphrata, Washington for his training.' " I find myself wishing I had written more; that I had asked more questions; that I could remember more. Time passes.