Memory… is the diary that we all carry about with us. – Oscar Wilde
Memory is the fourth dimension to any landscape. – Janet Fitch
November is a time for memories. Some are easy and some are not. We gather around tables or feel the tug of past meals in our guts. We repeat what we are grateful for and hear the faint echo of what we are not grateful for, that we would let fall away from us like leaves.
In this week’s group, we examined all of it. Some writers wrote about who they missed most or who they missed least. We talked through the scents and smells of our memories, how they all have the power to pull us back in time.
In the pieces below, you will read all these perspectives.
The rain, the start before the storm,
the high before the low,
the blue sky to the dark cries.
The nights you could not see my cries inside,
missing the nights we held each other tight,
the nights the drops fell from my face,
thinking about our last embrace,
the rain from the bright blue skies,
no longer is their hurt in my eyes.
No longer do I need your embrace.
The rain has done, erased.
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