Kinnikinnick. Like Mississippi, but cooler and more Colorado. It’s a word from memory and it goes as far back as I can remember. 3. 3-years old.
Ramona Drive. I had to look it up. I remembered the house but I didn’t remember the address. Our house had yellow logs, a red roof, and red window shutters – they weren’t real shutters though. They were decorations to make it look like the house had shutters. To be quite honest, I don’t know if they were actually red. That’s just what I remember.
The house on Ramona Drive was 2-stories, but upstairs was only two rooms, my room and my parents room. I’ve always found it curious what the mind holds onto and what it omits. Whether or not there was a bathroom upstairs must have not been important. I do distinctly remember the stairs. My memory tells me the stairs were really steep. And narrow. And dark. But I remember sitting on them often. One time, I sat on the bottom few steps while my mom applied nail polish remover to the ring and middle fingers of my left hand. I had superglued them together because child.
I’ve written more than that, but not by much. I think I’m roughly a page in. I was making good progress until I changed my mind about how I’m going to tell the story. I had started my novel, thinking of it more in terms of a collection of memories. Then I decided I would go down a different route and tell the story a different way.
It’s time to take a break, lie in a hammock, and see what comes next.