I saw the old playhouse this weekend. It was old and torn up, but the memories were as fresh as the paint on the trailer my father had up on the lifts.

That little playhouse was our drive-through fast-food joint. It was the place in which we spent summer nights and played with friends. It was the house we cleaned and rearranged to accommodate our "club" meetings. That little house was the most beautiful place I remember.

Our friends had the latest and greatest dollhouses; Sister and I had a real life-sized dollhouse. We even brought electricity into the house via an extension cord so we could play our cassette tapes. We had picnics on the porch and brought the first wireless phone out there so we'd never miss a thing. We had a place where we had to use our imaginations and have fun.

I'm one of the blessed ones. I can remember things from my childhood. I can remember a lot of things. My husband is unable to recall many things because of PTSD. Of course he and I grew up in opposite areas of the country; but, since the diagnoses of PTSD and TBI he has little recall of childhood memories.

My guess is that my husband's memory is a lot like that old playhouse. At one time, he had all kinds of pleasant memories. Now it's all torn up and dilapidated. Sometimes I wish I could give my husband back some memories--but I know that is impossible. What I can do is help him make pleasant memories with our children. That way the boys will one day look back and fondly remember--even if their daddy can't.

Blessings for you all today,
the PTSD Widow