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You begin by remembering,
how you did it.
You walk all the way back
to where memory feels
less like a weightless burden
that paints dust onto
the day’s tables and ledges
and more like that
solid brick wall that
prevents you from
seeing what’s behind it:
remember as far back as
when you took the chance
without knowing how green
the grass is on the other side.
Remember as far back as
when you didn’t know how green
the grass is on the other side,
and it could still be greener.
You need a reference point
just so you can
look at an old familiar thing
for the first time
in a long time, again.
Ask yourself if the fire trees
are the same bright flame,
if the moon still bears
the same thumbprint of sorrow,
or if the subtitles to
the movie in your mind
have managed to shift
when you weren’t looking,
and you haven’t looked
for a long time.
Dodge the stampede of
thoughts from recent days
that will confuse you like
routines on a treadmill.
Remembering is a walk
whose distance can be tricky.
You have been blind for a while
and can no longer judge
distances properly.
But you’ll know when
you’re close to the memory.
The palm pressing on your heart
starts to feel like London fog.
And the paper will feel
like the street you walk down
each morning.
Hold on to them, those nights
in your life that make you
keep coming back.
Hold on to that particular
snapshot of yourself that
made taking note
of the details so natural.
Because you can’t be
in two places at one time,
and no matter how far you get
and leave it behind,
you’d rather be there.
Carry that with you.

untitled photo by photographer Artem Yankovsky