I put a pinch of tobacco in my pipe so I can be like my father. He used to smoke a pipe as my sister and I, both no more than seven years old, sat on a shabby couch in our cabin watching Bruce Lee movies. My mom was there, too, her arm around my sister or me, laughing at the silly voice overs.
I sit here now and smoke a pipe, not to look cool or to start a buzz, but to feel like my father must have as he watched over us, his family. I want to see through his eyes, to look back into the past when to me, Bruce Lee seemed as almighty as Christ himself, and all we needed was each other.
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Thanks for flying with us. Keep up the good blogging.
This notification popped up on my WordPress dashboard today. My first thought when I saw it was, “Holy shit…I’m old.”
I’m not that old of course. Only 22. But when I look back at when I started this blog and compare it to where I am now – sitting in a coffee shop, next to a bald man with eyebrows so bushy you could get lost in them who’s reading a book on Celtic heritage – I feel a little wrinkly, and perhaps a bit dusty.
Her smile is like brown sugar and cinnamon. Sweet, but not overwhelming.
She moves like a rain storm, slow at first so I can keep up. Then fast. Too fast for me.