4:44 a.m.

It’s funny how we remember certain small things. Years ago I had invited a couple of friends over for dinner and, at the last minute, included a woman we’d just met. She had recently married a widower we knew and he was out of town. She mentioned her routine of getting up at 4:44 a.m. for some quiet time before her workout on the treadmill. Shortly after that meal, they moved away so we never spent time with her again. I don’t even know if she is still alive, but as an early riser myself, if the clock reads 4:44 a.m., I think of Peg. There are other people who have moved on and we’ve lost touch, yet, every year on their birthday or some other occasion, I think of them, again, without knowing where they are or if they are in this world. That would be okay if they were all folks I want to remember, but there are a couple whom I’d prefer had moved on all together, not to be thought of again.

There are also small instances, like times I screwed up, reacted poorly, downright lied, was bruised or hurt that periodically reappear. Even if the wounds are healed, forgiveness asked for and given, an echo remains, a shadow lingers, and I am again in that emotional spot for a split second. 

These small moments aren’t festering or continually running like ticker tape across my brain. It’s that they occasionally flash, shedding a spotlight on them once again, like an unconscious nudge. If it was something I said or did - or didn’t say or do - then it’s a gentle reminder that, while still a flawed human being, I hope I learned from the experience and have grown. It’s surprising that it is not the heartbreak or major disappointments that haunt. Maybe some morning at 4:44 a.m. I’ll try to discern why it’s the little ones that pop up. If I get an answer, I’ll let you know.

Marilyn