Memories. They come and go tickling the senses as they do. The smell of grass. An old book. Spring rain. Autumn wind. The feeling of summer’s heat, blue skies, or gray ones if you like. I know that when I hear the sound of bike bells I remember the years of riding our bikes and skate boards and scooters to the park. The baseball game would be going on and with our twenty dollars we could fill up our small bags with candy and sweets. But we had to be fast or else our parents would notice we left the neighborhood. All that candy we just bought? It needed to be scarfed down before we forced our stomachs to endure a healthy food shock that was dinner.
Blue clueless skies and a light breeze combined with the summer heat reminds me of summer. The emotions combined with the sensations make me want to cry because I cherish it so much. I’m pretty sure that the memory was nothing important but its impression is everything.
My memories are everything and yet I can’t clear remember them. But they are still important.
My memories make me. Me. It defines what i know. What I do and who I am. My memories are my story. My memories are my history.
My memories
Your memories.
And how our memories spin together determine our future.
This is my story.
Its my story.
Its my story.
And mine.
Its my story.
My story.
My story.
And by telling you, it becomes yours. Trust me as you may, for maybe its true and maybe its not. Our eyes shimmer in anticipation of good stories of beautiful memories and gain experience from other’s lives.
So this is where we begin: “in a prettyhow town with up so floating many bells down.”
Marlena Marie 