The Blue and Yellow Marbles were the Best

When I was a little girl, I had a bag of marbles.

It was a cloth bag with about a hundred marbles, maybe more, and it cinched up with a string.

I would empty the marbles on my bed and then sort them in groups by color and size. I loved the marbles and would hold them in my hands until I tired of them and put them back in the bag. There they would stay until the next time I needed to see them. Little talismans.

It would be trite to say I’ve lost my marbles. More accurate to say I left my marbles at my parents’ house and went on with my life. Though I didn’t look for it, I bet the cloth bag with the marbles was still somewhere in their house after my folks died. Maybe not. Instead of looking for the marbles, I took my father’s minnow bucket and pillowcases my mother embroidered during those times when she was happy and hopeful.

I am having trouble staying on an even keel. I think that’s why I miss my marbles, wish I could empty the bag on my green comforter, sort them, and hold them in my hands.

Last night at dinner, my son called me ‘worrisome.’ I don’t think he meant that I cause worry. Rather, he meant that I tended toward worry and that that worry made other people anxious. He said this in a kind but straightforward way, and I knew he was right. I have episodes of not being able to control my worries or my self-doubt or my incessant, never-ending belief that I’ve not done enough.

When is someone on an even keel? Is it when they can put the marbles back in the bag and not feel a sense of longing?

I wonder about this but do not have an answer. But I do feel better having written about it, which is often the case.