June 13, 2015 life
A life’s trajectory
is seldom arrow-straight
(as the mind would want),
but twisting
unpredictably,
in a Brownian dance.
Still, the mind cries for order,
seeking straight lines,
the arc of a story.
And so we build,
in memory’s gallery (halls),
a string of snapshots
that define ourselves
to ourselves.
Out of infinite moments,
only the most vivid,
charged with aliveness,
Sharp with anguish or bliss,
are held in the shrine of memory.
And mostly,
it is those we have loved,
with gratitude, with regret,
who give us these moments,
these signposts of connection,
poignant and enduring.
To look back,
through this trail of memory,
is to trace a path,
Like constellations
of loss and love,
each point a shining light,
as we have briefly touched
and been touched,
time and time again.