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As hard as I try, I can't remember what I wore this day last year. I can't remember if my makeup was on point or if anyone complimented my handbag. I doubt anyone else remembers what I was wearing then either. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I have an old used book I bought from a library sale. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. And inside the front cover there's an inscription dated from 1967. Fifty years ago. It's a gift to someone named Donna Yarberry. I tried googling the name and instead of finding Facebook pages, I came across obituaries. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
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There are so many questions I would ask Donna if I had the chance. I would ask, for instance, about her life, about her childhood, about her top five memories. And I wonder what she would answer. I have a strong suspicion that none of her answers would revolve around the materialism that the world seems to revolve around today. ⠀⠀
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Everything changes when viewed from this perspective. Anytime I pass by cemeteries, I can't get over the complete silence there. I can't stop thinking about the lives of the people who are buried there. All their struggles, all their hopes and dreams. Did they sacrifice themselves for others or did they sacrifice others for themselves...or both? I wonder if they had a chance to do it all over again, what they would do differently. What wouldn't they change.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
So today, #44, I'm grateful for this book, its inscription and all the history it holds. And the reflections that have come as a result.
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#grateful
#gratitude


