Frosted in time, etched in the sheer icy glaze covering winter cold glass. Yet filled with golden light, remembered with warmth. Why do they not melt, dripping lost from sight, like so many other memories? They remain suspended in time, freeze frame, each single exquisite moment.
Little square window panes bordered in chipped painted wood the colour of old paper. Experiences caught, snapshots of a life. Each one spread haphazardly about the table, like a deck of cards given one sharp shove. I reach out and pick one up…
A bubble bath with my best friend of the age of six, a boy no less, what were our mothers thinking!? Oh the innocence, and the tragedy – for i no longer know this boy but in my memory, he no longer breathes.
Little bundles of silky fur, clinging to my pant leg, trying to climb me. Their sweet yet pitiful meows when they don’t know how to get down, hanging there vulnerably. How soft my heart is as I pick them up ever so gently, not minding the sharp prick of their baby claws. The epitome of innocence – even in innocence we sometimes hurt…
My lips touching his lips, tasting his life, breathing his experience. Souls reaching out tentatively, intertwining like the ghostly fog of coastal winter mornings, weaving its way between trees. It will not last, I must drink deeply to sate my thirst. Mourning before it is time to do so; because I know. . .
The steamy moisture kissing my skin as I dance, dance, to the relentless tribal beat. Eyes closed lost in the euphoria, drunk with a religious like fervour, delicately balancing on heels so high. Alone, yet caught in a crush of bodies. Skin brushes against skin; welcome contact or intrusion of long held boundaries?
Sitting so still with the dark ocean laid out before me, vast in it’s reach and beauty. Profound in it’s ability to reach deep inside me; whispering to my soul – wise and healing. Here I am home, the salt air lightly teasing my hair; perhaps we were birthed from these ancient waters.
Trying to spit words out, laughter that won’t allow me to speak more than a single fraction of a syllable before another gale of silly sweeps me up in itself. Intoxicating tears cleansing my soul, making me buoyant, washing away stored up hurt in a moment.
If some of those moments could just last a little bit longer, the best ones so fleeting. I want to play them like a favourite record over and over again, just to savour and taste them. If I pick these panes up and throw them against the wall, will all the shards of broken glass become new moments? Seeds of memories past planted in this life, a thriving garden showing many tiny promises of green.
It is for these frames of life we live. The poignant, the beautiful, the healing, the painful, the joyous, the bittersweet, the exhilaration, the tenderness, the fury, the bliss. How empty life would be without it all, like an old abandoned house, a window with the glass broken out, the pane a black vacant hole. All these many emotions, moments frozen in time, etched in our memory; for this we live.
The sweetness of it all.
May 8 2009
Just thoughts that came to mind, how we try to cling to our memories, how sweet some of them are. How rich and full, or bittersweet moments can be…
Featured in Nirvana June 6 2009 – Thank you!