I captured and bound memories onto cherished, ink-smudged paper—hopes and adventures, as well as fears—and carefully taped loose photographs to otherwise blank pages.
Collected in a neat stack of unfinished journals:
There is my mother. She forgot to turn off the camera flash. My sister and I giggled, immortalized in harsh light.
My father is next. He is beaming—so proud I won an award in school. The story is written here in words, but that moment is a picture only in my heart.
And my sister is always there, never further than a step away. I used to mind having a second shadow; it doesn't bother me so much anymore.
Each moment is perfectly preserved on faded pages and in a faulty memory.
YOU ARE READING
seasons of my heart
PoetryLove: infinitely personal and consistently imperfect. Life: like the seasons, continues to move on; never stopping and always changing. Hope: the persistent light in the dark.
