That was over forty five years ago, yet it's one of the few memories I have from my childhood. It seems our hormones serve as connections to the memories we keep. I was blessed with chronic anxiety, probably from a shortage of dopamine receptors, or dopamine, I'm not sure which, so the memories of things good quickly sink into oblivion, unlike the oily negative experiences.
My most recent bicycle ride along the Lost Bridge Trail was pleasant, I met another distance cousin connected through Ancestry.com. We always stop at the Light House restaurant for brunch in Rochester then head back to Springfield.
The ride itself was harder than usual. It was cold and I noticed on the trail before me, moss was gradually encroaching from the sides, cracks became more pronounced and more leaves and twigs were obscuring the pavement. Ahead in the distance, a Coyote limped onto the trail and saw us approaching and limped back toward the trail side facing the highway, disappearing in the thick brush.
The only sounds on the trail that day were cars rushing by on the nearby highway, the clicking of my bike and the cold air rushing passed my ears. My mind cleared for a moment and the realization of my crushing loneliness flooded in. It's just my hormones again. It's not anybody else's fault.
When green vanishes from the landscape, leaving endless jagged, leafless branches in hues of brown and black, howling against a fast, slate-colored sky, the snow becomes pocked with foot steps, dog poop and soot from traffic; icy, muddy sludge fills my shoes from doorways and pot-holed parking lots. I'll look up and see people appearing to be enjoying something called "holiday spirit."
Those smiling, laughing faces engulfed in their opulence, showing me what I can't afford, reminding me how much of a failure I am for not being able to afford the best Christmas gifts, the newest car, the biggest house, or literally my own place to live.
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