“Fresh sheets.” Journal exercise: your favorite memory. #arttherapy

Write for 10 minutes about your favorite memory.  

Maybe a favorite unusual moment in time.   Stream of consciousness.  No censorship.  Keep the pen moving.  Don’t worry about grammar or making sense.

Sometimes favorite memories can feel poignant, sad, sentimental, amazing.

A favorite memory.  I thought of it last night as I changed the sheets on my bed and lay down in the sweet scent of clean.  My mind flooded back to changing Mom’s bedsheets those last few months of her life.  Coming over with cleaning supplies and scouring her house with smells she liked- Pinesol, Orange Mate, Lysol, Murphy’s Oil Soap etc.  Doing all the floors, vacuuming, scouring the bathroom, ironing, doing laundry, chatting and laughing, bringing her water, her meds, doing blood pressure check, diabetes test, changing her sheets and putting on fresh ones.

Watching movies, and shows and documentaries.  Cleaning the porch, weeding the garden, walking the dog, cleaning the bird cage.  Making tea/coffee, buying her Boost and cleaning out the pantry.  Putting on the dishwasher and digging around the storage.  Tidying up the guest room and discussing family gossip.  Looking at old photos and prepping snacks.  Making dinner for the family.  Helping mom in the bathtub.  Watching her put on her velour track suit and her jewelry.  Cleaning her purse.

Organizing all the medical equipment.  Updating her binder and making doc appointments.  Using the Swiffer on the hardwood floor.  Hanging up paintings and cleaning her car.  Talking to neighbors and more dog walks.  Cleaning off the porch tables and chairs and dusting the living room.  Buying presents for the kids and updating mom on the latest.  Lying beside her on her fresh sheets.  Making sure she had her favorite flat old pillow, which I still have.

FRESH SHEETS.  Encouraging her to use the NICE ONES she kept saving for her guests.  The embroidered pillowcase covers.  The big comforter.  Her hair rollers.  Her makeup bag.  The old bag of buttons and thread.  Always a bottle of water and the orchid.  And the sun through the venetian blinds just so.

Memory is the diary that we all carry about us.  – Oscar Wilde

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