{"id":1213,"date":"2020-08-11T21:06:09","date_gmt":"2020-08-12T04:06:09","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lydiacameron.net\/?p=1213"},"modified":"2020-08-12T16:30:30","modified_gmt":"2020-08-12T23:30:30","slug":"the-question-of-time","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lydiacameron.net\/index.php\/2020\/08\/11\/the-question-of-time\/","title":{"rendered":"The Question of Time"},"content":{"rendered":"\t\t
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\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tIt was a beautiful, sunny, July morning. I was sitting in the hospital, waiting for my upper GI. Waiting! Waiting, because they had inadvertently overlooked me.\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t
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\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tThis was just a few months over a year since my husband\u2019s death. My thoughts drifted to him. I opened my purse\u2014flipped through my wallet and began studying his picture. Suddenly, as though a light went on in my brain, I whispered to myself, \u201cOf course!\u201d It had clearly come to me, the answer to a question that had puzzled me for over fifty years. I grabbed my pen and began writing on a scrap of paper. For, it was important that I get my thoughts written down. \u201cYes, it all makes sense now!\u201d I uttered to myself.\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t
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\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tIt was in the late 50\u2019s, before the interstate had opened up. Our little group of six, was only one of the many cars traveling every day, back and forth from our small town, to make the fifty-mile trip to work in the city.\n\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t
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\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tI sat on the back seat in the middle of two ladies. The lady to my left, an older lady, I will call Mrs. B., was a little gray headed lady. She was short, somewhat on the pudgy side, very quiet, and sweet (except that one time I remember, when she grabbed her umbrella, and gave Mr. Bill a whack over the head for driving too fast.)\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t
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\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tMrs. B. was always so anxious, and very willing to pull out her wallet, and show me a picture of her husband, who was stationed in another part of the country, making his career in the military. He didn\u2019t get home much. And I would wonder, did he have another wife\u2014or another family? Oh well. Anyway, it puzzled me.\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t
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\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tShe always showed me the same picture of that young, dark-haired, and handsome man. Dressed in his uniform\u2014he was charming, to say the least! But she seemed so old! Gray-headed! The picture showed him so young! I wondered; doesn\u2019t she have a more recent picture? Surely, he wasn\u2019t that young!\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t
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\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tNow, sitting here at the hospital, looking at my husband, I can see. It all makes sense! That was about 55 years ago!\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t
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