Memories pass like sands of time
Digging through the dusty garage, memories uncovered in the mass of useless and meaningless junk. Pictures of me from my senior year and the gaudy gold of my cap and gown, unseen after shedding it from my body. I looked at a face that is no longer mine, large and bloated, sad and even morose. The one I see in the mirror now is tighter, brighter, and younger. My eyes a shadow of dark and blue crystal that glints with inner contentment. There were books from various college years in a box, unable to be sold from year to year. The years past jumped out of me, a university career that feels short but is infinitely longer then that. A desk drawer that sat in my closet for the span of my life, painted white with a rose knob. The new touches couldn't take away from the old, the hidden glue and crowns stuck on the inside panel of that drawer. What stuck me most as I dug through these old things was how much time has gone by, how full my life has been, and how many relics that have been forgotten through the shuffle. But once the memories start flooding back, the flow doesn't cease.
I remember Memorial Day especially. Every year we lived in Indiana and every year my grandfather was alive we'd trek to various lakes, usually Hardy, and spend the whole of the holiday on his boat. It wasn't a large boat, a standard fishing boat that older men in Southern Indiana own with pride. My mom, dad, grandmother, grandfather, sister, and I would cram ourselves into the boat and even though our elbows would almost touch each other, we'd fish. Even though the majority of us couldn't seem to get along with at least one other person in that boat, harmony would take over for that one day. It was what my grandfather loved to do and even though I was never a lover of fishy smells and wriggling worms I could understand the beauty in it. The peace of the lake and the act of waiting patiently for a fish to grab onto a shiny hook and run. I would usually catch more then my sister who enjoyed the sport which instilled jealousy in her, my "blue jay" fishing forgotten in moments of triumph. I never touched the catch, my grandfather would unhook it and there was pride between us for that second, the only time we ever truly bonded. My father would bait my hook, teasing me as was his wont but for that day it always felt lighter then the darker, private relentless picking.
It was a day of laughing, story swapping, and skin burning in the sun.
I remember Memorial Day especially. Every year we lived in Indiana and every year my grandfather was alive we'd trek to various lakes, usually Hardy, and spend the whole of the holiday on his boat. It wasn't a large boat, a standard fishing boat that older men in Southern Indiana own with pride. My mom, dad, grandmother, grandfather, sister, and I would cram ourselves into the boat and even though our elbows would almost touch each other, we'd fish. Even though the majority of us couldn't seem to get along with at least one other person in that boat, harmony would take over for that one day. It was what my grandfather loved to do and even though I was never a lover of fishy smells and wriggling worms I could understand the beauty in it. The peace of the lake and the act of waiting patiently for a fish to grab onto a shiny hook and run. I would usually catch more then my sister who enjoyed the sport which instilled jealousy in her, my "blue jay" fishing forgotten in moments of triumph. I never touched the catch, my grandfather would unhook it and there was pride between us for that second, the only time we ever truly bonded. My father would bait my hook, teasing me as was his wont but for that day it always felt lighter then the darker, private relentless picking.
It was a day of laughing, story swapping, and skin burning in the sun.