People talk all the time of their memories from childhood.

They describe them with crisp clarity and eloquent rhythms.

How do they hold them so close?

My memories don’t stay.

They are Swiss cheese. Filled with holes.

They are butterflies that flee when you get too close. I can’t hold mine.

They are photographs – frozen images with no connection even though I am in them.

They are impressions and feelings vague and misty like a San Francisco morning

Not that I would really know what San Francisco is like not ever having been there only read about.

That is how my memories feel. They are pictures in a book of a foreign land.

I listen to my family discuss events and marvel at them

as though they were talking about wondrous adventures only to realize

that I had been part of the story after all.

My memories are stored in the lives of my family.

They keep them for me safe until

one day they won’t be there any longer.

Now I write my memories and impressions

so that one day

my unborn grandchildren will read my life back to me

as a children’s bedtime story

before I sleep


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