Today I watched the trees rustle in the glow of an April sunset, and memories came to me like lapping waves. I could do nothing but smile at the privilege of remembering.
What a lovely burden it is. Perhaps that is the blissful curse of humanity, of living this life on earth, and of writing. That even as something happens, you’re assigning it to memory. Every last aching breath of it. You’re bottling it up and saving the sweetness and sadness and gut-wrenching beauty of it for later.
Sometimes, much later.