This morning I’m having a great time drinking my coffee, sitting at my desk in the room we call the “tree house”. It’s called that because three walls are windows and it sits about two stories above the street.
I have today off so last night was a little later than normal, and I was woke up about 1:30am to sort a locked gate problem at work. All of which leaves me a little lazy this morning.
Going through old photos and applying captions reminds me of why I like to look at them. Each one is a visual memory of a day, mostly fun ones but not all. I still get a bit of how I felt, kind of like a warm day in November reminds me of the past summer.
The feeling I get from those pictures is not a perfect reproduction, my memory is biased for what I want to remember. November colors, smells, and sunlight are not summer, but somehow that doesn’t seem to matter. It takes me back to a day spent smoking meat in the smoker, or spent with my wife at the farm, or maybe a motorbike ride.
I’m not in the November of my life, but those photos will always be my summer.