77. Memories

77. Memories

When did the rain stop being just rain?
Alas, even the sight of the clouds and its
Fresh and clean scent carry with them
A heavy set of memories—laced with
A blend of sweet and dangerous emotions.

When did the itchy, pale green grass
And the shade of a tall and splendid oak
Come to stand for the weight of a head
On my shoulder or the pressure of another
Hand holding mine for the first time?

Why can’t a song just mean one thing?
Indeed, some seem to have a certain sentience...
They call to me at different times, saying,
“Come. Come and feel the way you felt then—
And know that those times have past.”

To dream back on the days of long ago is
A bittersweet thing filled with joyous melancholy.
But still, I take in the sights, sounds, and smells of rain,
I roll in the grass and savor the itchy sting under the oak’s shade,
And I know the song’s consequence—but I listen all the same.

—C.R.E.