I once asked my dad why he backed into parking spots when we went to church. He kept his eyes forward as we walked from the back of the parking lot to the church’s front door. “Quicker exit,” he said, and I think about this as I pull into the parking lot at work and watch the side mirrors as I back myself into a corner spot.
When will the amnesia set it? When will the many tears I shed be replaced by feelings of nostalgia?
You speak about it fondly, but not positively.