Nothing but Memory

A quarter century ago, I came to live in this city.
First place of residence was a friend’s couch in a small apartment.

Business took me back to that block of former apartments, now condos, for the first time since then, on a warm, sunny afternoon.

Memories flooded up.
Images from a much younger self.
Images of others, now disappeared, grown up or dead.
More stories.

Scanning the real time scene, the long-mown, bright green lawn, clear blue swimming pool under a cloudless sky, a small brown terrier barking hysterically out some window, it seemed almost bucolic. (Except for the terrier.)

The stories ! Oh, the stories ! It all happened right here !

The current residents don’t know what went on, or where, or to who.
Or even what it meant to us.

They just see it as it appears today.

Is this why people erect markers over graves ?

Perhaps insisting that memory must have more substance than it ever can (or does)
demands physicality, solidity, a continuing presence that thought fails to provide.

Urging others to recognize the substantiality of memory,
of what long since disappeared, is a way of rejecting
the complete and utter evanescence of thought,
and therefore the dreamlike nature of the past.

No matter how much emotion, meaning or story line
we infuse into memory (nothing other than thought),
memory remains nothing more than mere thought.

I climbed into the hot truck and drove slowly away,
allowing the shadows of the past to once more fade into nothing.

Nothing but thought.

Nothing lost at all.


The gravestone pic came from here:

About dominic724

A former seeker starts blogging.
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