I found plausible reasons to hide in the bathroom instead of holding hands with beautiful, beautiful Scott Stewart in an icebreaker game as it was well reported that I had sweaty hands. We built bridges out of masking tape and copies of The Winnipeg Free Press. I have been keeping lists like this since the 11th grade, when I was spirited away with other earnest Canadian teenagers to a conference center for a leadership program. Shifting and harrumphing and rearranging blankets, I turn to my husband, Toban, and ask him, “Does this count as a bucket list?” I am carefully arranged on pillows to keep my weight off the chemotherapy infusion pack. #16 Take a scooter tour around Prince Edward Island. It stretches across many pages in blue ink, pencil, then a red scrawl as new fantasies were caught and bottled like fireflies.
I fish around for inspiration in old journals of mine, and one night, right before bed, I find a list dating back decades. After all, what do I know about dying? I’ve never done it before.
But I resolve to follow the lead of the Caitlins nonetheless. I attempt to take notes while they are talking, then find myself searching online libraries for the popularization of the term “bucket list” followed by a long period of processing my disappointment that it only became common after the eponymous Jack Nicholson, Morgan Freeman movie in 2007.
0 kommentar(er)
