Copyright 2013 Josie Daleiden *** Dappled sun spills through a crocheted blanket. Senses dull to the barrage of pleasure, but memories capture the gist. We all live in the moment, but to live in a moment is not to absorb it. Old wise ones ponder all, but relish in their past exploits in pure form. For all their memories cling to them like smoke from a campfire. As the dappled sun spills on the grey-haired soul who visits his glory days, Two lovers press against the fragrant green grass under a flimsy shield of woven yarn. As a young woman's hair spills across her admiring partner, she feels tethered and weighted. This anchoring is not an unwelcome limitation, but a means to retain an instance with so much . So much gravity. So much sensory input. So much love. That to not be held, or held onto, would mean to drift away from this moment. To not be able to capture it within their loving embrace, hidden by their crocheted colander. As two lovers’ hearts race in a competition only they can understand, they are one.
We do not live in these moments. They do not live in these moments either. They are gone before we know what to make of them. We can only hope to catch them and store them. When our lives slow, And our bodies descend incrementally in a slow spiral to the Earth's cool soil. We reflect on these memories like the sunlight reflects off of a park fountain. Our cold hearts warm at the times past when we were all unafraid. Before life kicks us in our tender underbelly, she gives us small morsels of pleasure. This delicate nutrition is ours to keep. But we must not taint its sweet, fragrant sustenance. We need not poison the pure moments past in our life with the dirty vessels that we now drink from. Instead, we should drink these recollections from the source, from the times in our past glory. As two lovers make memories and cross new lines in mutual exploration, An old man chuckles to himself on a nearby bench. He remembers his own age of nubile invincibility. His own exploits as a young man brought back to the surface of his mind's deep water. Stirred as if by a hand in a still pond, his own senses trigger upon the thoughts of the past. As he once played as a young explorer under a thin blanket in a daylit park.