not-so-sticky

Early this morning, my arms were elbow deep in soapy dish water when Dad took his position at the side of the sink. "You're doing a good job there, you know," Dad said. " Thank you. I'm very good at dishes. I am a woman of many talents ," I replied. "Well, of course you are! You're my daughter!...What are we having for dinner?" he asked. " I'm not sure, Dad. I haven't even thought about breakfast yet. Let me have some coffee first, please... " Dad continued to stare at me. And then he wandered off to the dining room, through the living room. A few moments later, he had come full circle and was standing sentinel by the kitchen sink. He was silent. He was staring at me. I looked up from the sink. Dad was studying me - scrutinizing every movement I made as if he couldn't quite figure something out. " What is it, Dad ?" I asked. "Doesn't something seem ' off' to you?" he asked, tilting his head...

I have little scraps of paper accumulating of random, half-baked ideas for my blog. Notes without a structure that won't make sense to me in a year if I don't actually write about them now. It's interesting to find these notes because it's a habit I've had for years and although I don't have a large collection of these scraps, I do have about seven or eight journals full of random notes to myself. At times, I have intentionally obfuscated the backdrop of my notes to keep some sense of personal sanctity if they were ever read by someone other than me. Unfortunately, my memory is so cruddy that these elusive notes often confuse me now, too. Who was the person who kept these journals? What did all of it mean? I've experienced moments of humility while reading my old journals. I was so very young. I find them embarrassing almost. I had a great idea last night before settling into bed. Unfortunately, I have already forgotten what it was. But I tried to capture it...