Updated: Jan 10
How is it that a memory starts as a snapshot
And blurs into an impressionist image?
How is it that its sharp lines soften?
How is it that its dark colors fade to gray?
But a memory is like brass that gathers patina
That becomes part of its character,
even part of its beauty
The image isn’t as sharp
But the surface of a memory is burnished by living.
Polished and buffed by the years
Until it is its own work of art
Totally separate from the experience that evoked it
And as the image fades
The emotion of the memory outlasts its colors.