Tag Archives: memories

Memories’s Magic Act

When the world seems too much

When the weather in my mind is rainy

When that familiar ache in my heart whistles its melancholy tune

When I miss you

Then I will think of this moment

I will think of it briefly and sparingly

Just enough to see the sun and change the melody in my heart

Because the more I relive a moment

The less its potency

It fades until the smile it gives

Is only a marred reflection

Of smiles past

How sorrowful it is indeed

That our favorite memories

Disappear

But that just means that we have to make new ones

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In That Moment

It was one of those moments

where it seemed to stretch on forever

because it does.

I will carry

that peace

that excitement

that serenity

that safety

that bliss

that openness

that fun

that freedom

that love

forever

because I have chosen

for that

for this

moment

to never end.

Life may take me

hundreds of miles aways

and scores of years past

but that moment

this moment

will live on

as long as I do.

In that moment,

I felt an overwhelming

gratefulness for my life

and for the people who

make it worthwhile,

oh so much more than worthwhile

It is truly a blessing

to feel the love of life,

and I did

and I still do

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Oak Tree Memories

As I sit here

in this chair

in my bedroom

(a place I rarely visit except for slumber)

I stare not only at my lap top screen

yet also at my dresser.

Full inside of it are T-shirts

and shorts

and carpi pants

But on top of it,

there lies memories.

When I was younger

I had a collection of Precious Moments figures

little angels and praying boys and dancing girls

I use to call my dresser and the collection my “breakable shelf”

for touch a ceramic figure and it might break.

Is the same true for memories?

Delicate little things

as fragile as a flower

yet as durable as an ancient oak tree

it all depends on the memory

Where are the keys?

When was his birthday?

Did I turn off the curling iron?

Fragile memories

These memories upon my dresser are not fragile memories

they are parts of what make me, me

and so they are oak trees, not fragile flowers.

***

The first oak tree memory

belongs to a sparkling flower necklace charm,

one that was found in playground wood chips

A treasure found where another had lost it

Another oak tree memory

a pair of music box clowns

given to my father

by a great-grandmother that I never met

yet because of her gift, I feel as though I have met her

for her memory lives on in these oak tree memories

More memories:

a shell found on a Lake Superior beach

a miniature elephant made from obsidian from Mexico

a rock from my yard

a key chain from my future college

some unworn superhero wrist bands

a framed picture of my first paycheck

some cutouts of superheroes from cereal boxes

a coffee cup of my grandma’s, who is currently living in Heaven

two angels given to me and my sister at my grandmother’s funeral

some Bible verses written in colorful pens

a Spider-man musical birthday card from last year

These eccentric oak tree memories

make up an eccentric me

and I hope to be

an oak tree

and not a fragile flower.

However, I must remember

that every an oak tree

starts from a teeny tiny, little acorn.

Maybe these oak tree memories

aren’t oak trees at all

maybe they are acorns

and I’m the oak tree.

 

oak-tree-and-sun

Better

Oh how time distorts memories

how we distort memories

an old friend is always kinder

Grandma’s pie is always sweeter

the sand always softer

the past away relative always nicer

the sun always brighter

Oh how memories are exaggerated

memories turn reality into extremes

the winter always colder

the childhood vegetable tastes always worse

the pain of a fall always greater

the heat of a sunburn always hotter

the tears always saltier

the basement always scarier

Yet if we were to go back

and try it

or see it

or feel it

again

it would not be as good

or as bad.

the chocolate birthday cake does not taste as rich

the Christmas tree does not shine as bright

the hill was not as steep

the valley not as wide

Our memories brush over what we do not want to remember

we only remember the perfections and not the imperfections

or we only remember the imperfections and not the perfections

we choose what we remember.

But which is better

the memories or the memories we make?

Tarnished

Inspired by a line in a letter from a friend, “But I must add, my dear, how very cynical.”


He sighs, “But I must add, my dear,” his eyes glance over my fine features only for a moment not wanting to truly see me, “how very cynical.”

I dare a smile knowing he will not look back, “What would you rather me be?”

He paces the room, just like always. “Don’t play coy with me. Of course you know.”

It is the same dance every few weeks but with different sheet music. We cannot refuse but to have our words take hold and waltz through the night, without the going to the theater that I was so much looking forward to. And 1,2,3, “Remind me, please.”

He rubs his temples, “I understand what you went through was hard, an extremely tough situation that no one should have to go through. But you aren’t the same girl that I fell in love with anymore.”

I cannot help but laugh, a howl rather more, “How could I be?” I tug my sweater off, suddenly the room too hot for the comforts of cashmere. “I became someone so much stronger! You were in love with my weakness.”

“No, I was in love with your softness, your gentleness, your kindness. But now -” he sputters “now you are all sharp edges and I am afraid if I even touch you, I’ll be cut.”

“You always did have a way with words,” I sneer. Can’t he see how much better I am now than that puny, little girl he dazzled in that forever long Starbucks line? Can’t he see that this me is the only way I can cope what happened? Can’t he see I like myself better this way?

I guess he can’t. Or maybe he won’t.

I take control of my life now, say what I want, when I want. I live life how I want. I have learned to appreciate life the hard way. Back when I first met him, life was a never ending theme park roller coaster ride like on our third date to Six Flags. There was ups and downs but it would keep on going. Or so I thought.

He stops pacing and memorizes the plain, ordinary, egg shell white wall. “You were my shiny penny. I didn’t have much, but I had you. Now I have plenty, but I don’t have you.”

I break up the staring contest between him and the wall. He was going to lose anyways. No matter how furious I am at him, I still am startled at how dashing he looks in his tux. It reminds me of our wedding, happy smiles sparkled even more than the drinks did. “But I am standing right in front of you.”

“But you are a tarnish penny.” He pivots away from me in his Westwoods and paces once more. “This you, right now, is tarnishing the memories of the girl I loved. All the mean and hurtful words you spew tarnish the memories of telling your mom that we would clean up the kitchen just for an excuse to have some alone time for secret kisses. Your pessimism -”

I cut him off, “I’m being realistic.”

Louder this time, “Your pessimism about the very tilt of the earth allows you to fester your cynicism. What ever happened to the girl who dreamed of opening her own art gallery?”

“She died along with the baby,” I say, my voice taking on almost a visceral tone as it rightfully should. My breathes come shallow now.

He rushes to me now, his arms encompassing my thin form. If he embraced me like this when I first started dating him, I would have melted at his mere touch. My confidence was so delicate that I needed tactile reminders that he cared for me. But now, he fingers feel like tightening tentacles. This time, he looks me in the eye. “But I was there with you the whole time. We went through it together. I never abandoned you.” He wipes away my tear. I fight the urge to stiffen.  He then adds, “But why do I feel like you abandoned us?”

I pull away, hard and harsh, “You will never get it, you’ll never understand if you haven’t by now.”

I don’t need to see him to know he is crying. I memorized those shoulder shakes a long time ago.”Sometimes, I wonder if we would be better off if you would just leave. You tarnish everything good I ever had. My friends, my family, my love for you. Every fight like this, every cruel word tarnishes the happy memories I savor of the girl I fell in love with.”

I sigh, “But I must add, my dear,” if looks could kill, he would be dead on the marble floor, “how very cynical.”

penny

Flickr/DanielOines

Secret Spies and Algebra 2/Trig

I miss you

or maybe I just miss the memories we made

You’re still there

and I’m still here

Right next door

like we have been for almost thirteen years

I still see you every week

We still talk every week

. . . But seeing you and talking with you

isn’t the same as

being with you

I know you’re always there for me

And I hope you know I’m always there for you

But . . .

I miss you

or maybe I just miss the memories we made

***

Playing with the hose in the summer time

over at Grandma’s

pretending like we were firefighters

or whales

or secret spies with water/laser guns

We could travel the world

and be anyone or anything we wanted to be

with an old garden hose

***

Collecting moss growing on trees

and wood chips

and leaves from shrubs

and mud

we pretended like we were witches

making some magical potion

or we were super secret scientists on the edge of a breakthrough

and all we needed was a moon rock

and we would create a serum for superpowers

or we were secret spies (we really loved secrets, didn’t we?)

trying to stop the villain from collecting all the materials for a nuclear bomb

***

Sledding at your house

then my house

then your house

then my house

on winter snow days

where we would have sledding competitions

against the other super secret spy team

or we would create the biggest, tallest, thickest

snow fort the world had ever seen

of three feet tall

that would melt by the end of the month

or we would make snow angels until they covered the yard

***

On the bus you would show me the dresses you drew

and we would oh and aw at them

and you wanted to be a fashion designer

or we would crawl under the bus seats

from the front to the back

and ruin our clothes

but that was okay

because we were doing it together

or when you told me paper was the healthiest, best tasting thing in the whole wide world

so we ate paper for two weeks straight

***

Playing cards down in Grandma’s basement

where you taught me solitaire

and 52 pick up

or playing Rummy with Grandma in the dinning room

while eating rhubarb pie

and listening to country music

or playing Go Fish at sleep overs

and passing the cards back and forth

between our toes

***

I miss you

or maybe I just miss the memories we made

Now the memories seem to be

doing retakes together in Algebra 2/Trig

or brief chats consisting of “I like your shirt today!”

before class starts

or texts asking for a ride home

I know you are just a short walk away

or a text

or a phone call

but . . .

you might also be a childhood away

maybe the you I’m thinking about

went away

with the dolls and foam balls and other childhood toys

I miss you

or maybe I just miss the memories we made

***

To: Mysterious, 22

From: Nerd, 19

18 – 14, 18, 19, 19, – 2, 12, 21

Still remember the secret code?

88

 

Chuck girls pigs4