The third thing is right now.

I've written about the past--those days--more often than perhaps I need to, but it's because it keeps changing. There's always something new to add to the list of things that were, because of today. Now.

The Croque John Paul at Modern Times, and that coffee they make in big French presses all day; the Farmer's Market in St. Paul that still seems so far away but will be here again on warm Saturday mornings before we know it. A Friday evening or a Saturday morning at Spyhouse, with almond milk lattes or the most delicious iced coffee I've ever had. And of course, a Bloody Mary and a burger at The Happy Gnome, where our favorite server comments on how we're early one weekend when we show up on Friday instead of our usual Saturday.

The faux-fur blanket we sleep beneath every night, and our couch set up next to that bookshelf I love so much. The two corners of our apartment that are already filling up with wedding gifts stacked upon each other. The flowers I've been picking up at either Rainbow or Trader Joe's every week, and how perfect they look on our coffee table with a book and a cup of tea in the afternoon.

Those walks around Lake Normandale, and the morning runs I take around our neighborhood when it's nice out (or when it's raining). The sound of my tea kettle whistling away in the kitchen for me to make my coffee while I sit at my computer.

We've managed to make a home here together, even so far from everyone we know and love. It feels really good, these experiences that are not yet memories. And it's all right now.

This post is in response to the following prompt: "What is the third thing? There is you and there is writing. But you can't write about writing...You and writing must gaze out at a third thing...What is there in this world?" (From Old Friend from Far Away, page 42). If you've written a response of your own, please share it below in the comments!

P.S. Visit this post for future prompts.

It all started with, well, I guess I can't really remember what started it. Maybe it was high school, and my friends, and the early meetings at the coffee shop for caramel lattes before class. Or the cross country practices where we set off toward downtown to do the Market Run, sneaking by the front desk of Hotel Roanoke and asking for those warm chocolate chip cookies they give to guests when they check in.

It could have been college, with the books and the parties and the professors who taught me so much more than they may ever know. Living with my girlfriends, figuring it out, getting my heart broken, putting it back together, and first crossing paths with my soon-to-be husband on that ridiculous October night. Longwood and Hampden-Sydney and big brunches with the friends that became family every Sunday morning in a dining hall somewhere.

And then, of course, was grad school--moving to Charlottesville and the coffee shop where I worked and my master's thesis and so many Disney princesses. The first place Rob and I really shared a home, even if we were both living the lives of students. Our friends Patrick and Chad lived across the parking lot from us and Shawna and I ran together and had coffee and met for lunch every week.

At this point, I even look back what seemed like challenges as good times. Rob lived four hours away in DC for a time while I was in Roanoke, and we had some of the best weekends. Getting to know new friends and exploring a new city; having him come home for the weekend and just lying in bed together on Sunday mornings (sometimes with Rocky, when he'd let me put him between us and then actually stay there--he hated being on anyone's bed but his own).

When Rob first moved to Minnesota, I stayed in Virginia for a number of reasons, but one of the biggest was so I could spend more time with my dog. It was hard enough leaving him in August, but now I treasure the extra six months we spent together before I did finally move. We went on walks and I gave him treats and in the middle of the night he would walk down the hall from my parents' bedroom where he slept and fall asleep next to my bed until morning. He made me laugh and I sang to him in weird voices and took him to dog fairs and the Saint Patrick's Day parade where we had to stop every few feet to let some little child approach and pet him. They're good memories, even when I miss him so much that it hurts.

I have written about this countless times, and thought about it even more. It's nostalgia, and I love it even when it makes me cry. Looking back and writing about the past has always made me feel lucky to have such a wealth of treasured memories within. Everything back there looks golden and dewy from here.

And it has taught me to periodically take a step back, look at my present, and truly be thankful for it. Because time will continue to pass over golden years and (I've said it before and I'll say it again) those were the days, but so are these.

This post is in response to the following prompt: "What is your anchor, what you trust and know and can come home to over and over in your writing?" (From Old Friend from Far Away, page 238). If you've written a response of your own, please share it below in the comments!

P.S. Visit this post for next week's prompt.

I joke with my mom that soon I'm going to stop packing whenever I come to visit in Virginia. I already stopped bringing too many accessories along because she has the most fantastic jewelry collection. I borrow everything from her, though--tops (especially the thin white one with grey birds printed across it), sweaters, necklaces, sports bras, socks, those gold earrings with the light pink stones and the frilly outline that looks like the edge of a doily.

But there are things I don't borrow. Her class ring from high school, gold with a green stone on top; or her wedding rings, which I used to slip on every now and again in the past and admire from my own hand. And then there are things that I borrowed so much that I now own them myself.

When I was even younger, I used to rummage through her jewelry box, trying things on and imagining them in the places they had been before they found their eventual home, tucked away in a box with other shiny memories. My grandmother's wedding ring was the thing I wore most often, and when I turned eighteen or perhaps graduated from high school (I can't even remember the occasion now), my parents gave it to me as a gift.

It originally had three stones, and a few had been missing, so they had it re-sized and repaired the setting with sapphires, my birthstone. It was my grandmother's, and then it was my mom's, and then it was mine.

Sometimes material things don't matter. But other times, they do.

This post is in response to the following prompt: "Write about your mother's jewelry. Write about her shoes." (From Old Friend from Far Away, page 153.) If you've written a response of your own, please share it below in the comments!

P.S. Visit this post for next week's prompt.