in passing

5 months passed and no words seem to come out.
not that there had been a shortage.
it is just that writing forces one to remember.
an errand jotted down is more likely remembered than an errand committed to memory.

memories blur in time.
stories spun from memories are most likely be questioned.
not just by oneself, but by one's audience too.
questions brought about by the confusion of
what actually happened and what would one have wanted to happen.

pain and happiness mixed,
overwhelming emotions, exultations.
a friend said "this too shall pass"
if one is counting on the passing, why bother with the remembering?

memories make one alive.
but the living already happened when the story was being created by reality.
memories are sweet.
as one ages, one becomes more gracious.
that is the ideal, but it generally happens.

so i write again
and count on the memories come the years
to be sweet and blurry and make me all alive and well.