Memories, they curl away. Eventually. Like the corners of coffee-stained pages from an old notebook. Shut tight and laden with tales, pressed between the covers. Heavy, ready to wilt, saddled with magic and dreams, like a belly full of secrets still untold.
Words. And memories. Of times past. They sit in neat little rows, like freshly bloomed flowers. Sandwiched, an inky transition between then and now. And in that space between, is me. Like a rock stuck in a brook. Precariously balanced, delicately negotiating between what was, what is, and what will be. Holding on to what footing my round egdes can catch, weighing out the choices, plucking moments like undoing those annoying folded doggy-eared pages. I fix them, straighten them, press them out so they can breathe a little. Unfurl. Uncurl. Let the air pass along the crease, only to clamp them shut again. Return them to their spot between then and now. Squeezed tight like the whitening knuckles on my fist. They slip into the gaps and fill out.
I pick another one. Open it up, and watch the words, like the stains of memories, a record of moments set adrift. They dance out, standing up like little girls doing ballet. Toes pointed, bodies taut, teetering along in dotted rows down a brittle, fragile, crust page thats aged over time. They make their way to the edge, balancing gracefully, gently moving closer to freedom. Only to curl away, turn the corner, and disappear.