What we hold dear
Pressed ever so close
The fragrance fades
though a seed of what it brought us grows on.
Memories a source of conversation,
Come up, over and over as if needing air.
Memories buried underneath other memories,
layers upon layers,
waiting to be sorted.
I love when a memory comes up, whispering in my ear, nudging me to tell it to someone. Have you ever felt like that? Where a memory comes to you as if it is pushed to the surface for a reason?
As I walked around the brocante, my thoughts seemed to fit into picture frames, or small boxes. At times I gently tucked them under quilts…
Walking with the undercurrent of thoughts trailing behind me and sometimes running ahead. I placed my feelings between book pages, on plates, and tucked them between the stacks of postcards. Stories surfaced, wisps of moments barely recognizable, threads of thoughts tangled with the present hidden somewhere in the past.
Antiques are wrapped with the sense of time: Forgotten, lost, yet at the same time here and now, constantly adding on, transforming home and having new eyes admire them.
A source of past present future.
A large folder holding pages of old herbiers, pressed wildflowers and such, stored at the bottom of a chest. It seemed to say,
"What happened? How did I get here? Where do we go from here?"
I smiled, "I know someone who will show you the light of day."
Where do your memories take you today?
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