Our memories make us who we are.

There’s something about traveling to a far-off destination

Somewhere others have experienced

Somewhere people close to you have fondness for

That makes you anticipate the times to come.

A well-deserved adage

we don’t know what we miss until it’s gone

forever confined to the banks of our memories

You can arrange the scraps

But you’ll never see the full picture.

Each memory of this place was once merely a background detail.

The waves rolling upon the shore

The trees with their colored leaves

A chair, swing, or bedroom

It all seems so close, yet so far off in the distance.

The recap makes people gain personal perspectives

Everyone has their own ideas

Their own memories to capture

You grab your own memory

and you throw it on the pile

It grows higher and higher with no signs of stopping

Then we gather round, and celebrate.

But eventually

the memories wither and fade away

The pile dissipates, and what’s left goes to the wind.

But all around you, however

Memories are being born

And their owners will set them free likewise

In an unending cycle

We share our memories

But none of them are ever the same.