10 min free-write on
The time I went sleigh riding with my friends, in Sunset Park. "Follow me!" one said,
gliding round the hill. My sled, handed down, would not turn. I belly-whopped, face first,
into a broken bench, and shards of ice. My face, a bloody mess, I went home to my parents.
Memories come with a song, an old love, a summer divine, the view of Colorado mountains.
Climbing Cuyamaca in 90 degree heat, drinking applie juice along the way.
Stopping by trees to collect oak sap, to later burn as incense.
Bathing in the secluded waters, and listening to the spirits speaking on the hill.
Memory of myself, holding the camera to my eye,
and dancing my way into people's spaces, trying to capture the perfect shot.
Never did, but I keep trying.
Always memories of my father. His large hands making beautifully delicate
decorations on wedding cakes, and holding my own young hand in his.
Memories of my mother, when she could walk, and how she took life by storm,
indeed, she still takes it that way.
Memories can make our insides cry or rejoice once again.