Reaching in my pocket and coming up with lint

You want to know something stupid?  I can't tell you a good damn thing about most of my sisters and brothers.  I sure can't tell you what it was like to live with them, because most the time, I didn't.  That's the thing about being the youngest in a hurricane of offspring, at some point they make a jump all willy-nilly and sometimes, they don't make a show of coming back.

Unless, maybe, every time they come back is a show.

Seems to me I can't write a story about my family if I can't talk about my family, not with any acute knowledge, that is.  So, I'm just going to sit here every now and then and write a few things down, leave a little tangible evidence of my presence, stir it up once-in-a-while and see what kind of story to make of it.

You understand.

When your sister calls, answer it

I received a phone call yesterday from one of my sisters. She stated her concern over what kind of material I might include in my writing project now that I have committed to a memoir. She gently reminded me that she reads my posts insinuating that I should tread lightly where her name is concerned. She also stated that I can write whatever I want about the rest of them since they won't read it anyway.

Of course, she is right about this-perhaps with one exception, maybe two. Regardless, this is hardly cause for alarm. I barely know where to begin much less do I have great designs on breaking up my (ha ha, this is funny. you'll get it later if you don't already) family.

I'm also not out to burn bridges. Relationships are tenuous enough these days. I don't so much think that we're building bridges as knocking down trees to cross a dam.

As it is, I gave her a couple flashbacks I promised to write about her and she agreed they would have to be included. There are so many moments in a lifetime, do we really narrow it down to just a few words?