A memory is not the action
It is the company you kept
It is the time of day or the weather.
The memory is the sound,
A song, the film, birds at sunset.
The voice you never want to forget.
A memory is a living thing,
Ready to rise up and show itself,
Whenever the conditions are right.
When you close your eyes,
Memory can be a feeling.
That you think of with purpose,
Desperate not to forget it.
To box it up and hold it safe.
A memory can be warm.
Other times it can be your enemy,
Cold and hurtful and you wonder why you cannot put that one down
Leave it and walk away.
But warm or cold,
Those memories are yours.
They are the stepping stones that form
The pathway of your life.
The sounds of wood pigeons in the morning,
The light coming in the window when you wake up from a nap in the summer,
The smell of your favourite person.
A privilege and a gift.
