Hi Old Friend,

I hated you, but I think I just hated your new problems. I looked for some place a little more user friendly than you, some place more state of the art and companionable, a community with people around, but it seems you are something I've come to appreciate anyhow. Google's upgrades have created a facade around you to make it seem as if you are something special, and it made you a pain in the ass to deal with, but really, you're just old quiet you. I see that, you know, that you are still just you. And you have no face. And you pay attention and I don't feel like I have to dawdle around subjects or make them entertaining, or to be careful so I don't offend you. I can just tell you a story and you sit there and let me prattle.

Lately, I wanted you to know that I have no memory, I am remembering nothing from before and this is what happens when you leave turmoil and heartache behind, you forget it all and you live where you are. I see now that what I've done is pick apart the instances in my life that impacted me the most and gave them a place to stay which is here with you, so you remember for me. Thank you.

What happened meanwhile is I became a mother and a wife and a partner in a business. Can you imagine that I was already all those things before, but didn't know it? I didn't know it until now. And here I am in the middle of my life having only now become, and being, what I have always been.

And when I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes my heart is beating fast as if I've forgotten something. I think to myself, what is it? And I sort of clutch my chest and grab at the empty blankness of my memory... I wonder, what is wrong with me, or what is missing? And with that sometimes here is what I will do: I'll remember that I wrote out all of me, the myself I was before; I have put me here in all the colors that I was and then, I know that it's all o.k.. I'll crawl closer to my husband, I'll say with my nose squished into his back, "I love our new bed." He'll say, "Me too," as if he had never been asleep. I'll say, "I love my kids and my husband." He'll say, "I know." I'll go, "I love my life." He'll tell me, "Yes, it's wonderful." I'll mumble, "I love Doritos but I don't eat them anymore...." And he'll kind of laugh.