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Memories
Just what is a memory, can you tell me what it’s like…
And if you hold it long enough, can you see it in the light?
Are they cold, or hot, or in between, are they heavy to the touch…
To be such fragile, elusive things, who would think they’d hurt so much.
For everyone, a memory, is made of many things…
Some are joy, and some are sad, and some make lovers dream.
Hot and cold, some shy, some bold, they keep us company…
And when the night is very still, some times they help us see.
They serve a purpose in our lives, they keep our hearts on track…
They help us look for days ahead, and help some not go back.
And when you can no longer touch, that which your heart desires…
You always have the memories, they burn like signal fires.
For some they have a color, be it blue, or black, or gray…
And some are kept in tender hearts, as the smell of a special day.
Of rice and song and special vows, they bring forth times gone by…
Of gravel crunching beneath the wheels, and wreaths that make you cry.
So Just what is a memory, are they whispers of where we’ve been?…
Are they here to keep us company, or remind us of a sin.
Do they hurt, or heal, or tear hearts down, I suppose there are all kinds…
So try to make good memories, since they live within our minds.
So when the sun, has gone to sleep, and evening begins to stir…
The wind blows soft, the stars are bright, and memories are heard.
You hear them calling out to you, and tugging at your heart…
And if they are the happy ones, no tears will ever start.
My memories are flavors, I’ve tasted every one…
Some were sweet, and some were not, and some still on my tongue.
I would not trade a one of them, I’ll love them to my grave…
For in my heart they burn as bright, as the day that they were made
© Ron Walker August 1998
We had a gathering and cook-out of friends and family at our place located in the country. There was conversation around the fire, about all kinds of memories everyone had. Memories of school, growing up, lost loves, and those that had passed that we had known. A few days later, while thinking back on the cook-out conversation, I decided to write this.
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