Memoirs

Memory is a strange thing. It seems to capture images as a whole, refusing to omit the tiny, specific details that might, possibly....no longer be there.

And so it is that when I turn my head to the right towards the row of wooden bleachers next to me, I still half expect to see you, in all familiarity amidst the bouncing of the black rubber ball off the walls and the scuffling of court shoes on the wooden floors.

Or that I can still see, through the smoke and throngs of people pushing in front of me, your profile on the couch next to mine, your voice echoing through the incessant boom of loud music in my ears.

Oh how easy it is to OD on these images. These images that are now just pictures. Painted pictures breathing a life of their own...moving haphazardly through the sky. And in that brief moment that I reach out to touch them, they are gone.

Or not.

Because sometimes remembering will lead to a story. A story that seemingly lasts forever.

And that's what stories are for....for when all has disappeared, and there is nothing left that is tangible....except that story of my life.