mourning days lost, days past from remembrance
the dew, lifted from the grass by the sun
on the long summer days when the sky was as large
as the gap between school behind, and school yet to come

i can feel the grass between my toes,
and the water from the sprinkler hitting my hair and face
and the sound of an airplane somewhere in the distance
and the sun-bleached edges of those memories


It's amazing to me how much stronger memories are feeling to me as I age.  How much more full-body they are becoming.  How much more visceral.  Heightened by emotion, I can almost close my eyes and enter those days from the distant past, however idealized by the sifting of things out of them by time and distance and responsibility.

They are not 'better' than the memories I am making now, but they are freer from the static of obligation that exists around me while making memories today.  I think there's a path to reducing and removing that static from memorymaking today, though.  I should probably get back to daily meditation.