Untitled

Memory...little threads that hold life's patches of meaning together. ~ Mark Twain

It’s a beautiful night. The air is cool, but not cold. Every breath is refreshing, renewing. It’s beautiful, but it’s cloudy. In the lowest realms of that infinite darkness, there is a mist. I breathe that in as well. The refreshing air and the drowsiness of the clouds mix in my lungs. It moves upward until it sparks a thought, a memory. The night is filled with them – dances on the driveway, a ball on the wet evening grass, an empty parking lot and weak legs, the drive home, tears of farewell, a winding, single floor building, a split level house, a golden moment with a golden friend, a parking lot surrounded by palm trees, a six man tent, back roads, windows down. The memories are unrelenting – a field in the middle of town, driving home with a friend, white mist covering the road, shiny black asphalt, arguments In parks, football games and friends. As each memory flashes before me, it mixes with the air and the two become forever entwined. They are one and the same. One can only be triggered by the other. I breathe the air; it’s cool, but not cold. I think of who I was, who I knew, and who I loved. I breathe in the air. Now I think of who I am and who I am supposed to be. Again, the mist closes in. This time it is not a memory, but a question. What will be summoned next time the air is cool, but not cold? Who will become the picture in my mind? The question is posed, but the answer is not given. Yet, I am unafraid.

To those who know me ~ If a memory creeps across your mind or you find yourself in the words above, do not be surprised. Most likely, it is yourself that you read about. What were two simple sentences became a series of memories, which became one cohesive thought, which in turn found itself in one warm winter’s night.