The story is mottled—unclear, like a rain-stained window pane or the smudged colours of a ripening apple. There are pieces of it, fragments—a book with pages missing and torn corners; incomplete—as it should be, really, or as it inevitably always will be; as a story can never be told in totality: there is always more detail possible to add and parts omitted.
Memory is never the best testimony
anyways—now you see it, now you don’t—and possibly never will again.
Experience gets lived and lost in a maelstrom of brainstorm, buried in
piles of stones like sea-glass pebbles broken and strewn. Sometimes
hidden—like a bottle within a paper bag; or hermetically sealed, never
again to be revealed. At times, memories glint up from within—glass
prisms of broken glass, barely perceptible, but a reminder they are
there—were there—and have a story to tell.
The copyright of this post belongs to Monica Jenkins