honeydunce

Memory. This, the most intriguing part of my evening–the connective tissue. First, after work, I sat at the coffee shop
for an hour and read Tait’s story for a bit before being tugged by the need to write. I pulled out a notebook and
started writing out memories(as a good memoir is prone to provoking). I wrote about things that haven’t crossed
my mind in a long time. Important things. The black and whites we keep in the archives. You know, subtle
proof. I was there.

Shortly after that, Tait and Renee set off to the park with me, and we talked during our long walk on trails and
concrete. One of the things we talked about is memory. What becomes of that memory as we get older and
reflect on it again–does each reflection reshape(or misshape even) the very experience we remember having?
What happens when you create something from it–like art, or you write about it. Does the very act of
expressing it also result on alterations?

Then. Renee and I stayed at the coffee shop as the sky grew dark and talked for hours. Bless that connection. We
talked about memory, took turns telling the chronological, and I told her more than I’ve told anyone in a long
time. It’s hard to just name one experience without mentioning the ones surrounding it, until the ripple effect
makes the entire body of water tremble and you’re nearly thrashing with it: memory. These three moments of
today were like steps climbing up to something, or down to it. Closer to the root or closer to the sky. As with
many things, the destination matters little compared to the journey.

More moments and days like this, please. As if a reminder that I am right where I need to be. The picture above?
Contains a burn mark. Someone took a match to it. It wasn’t me. I know a thing or two about the impossible act
of burning out a memory.