The photos in this post are ones I took more than a year ago, but I've just gotten around to processing them tonight. They are of peonies and sea thistle on the windowsill of our old loft. When I look at them now, I vaguely remember the day I photographed these. It was nearing sunset. I was sad, so I'd bought myself flowers, and I snapped shot after shot of them as the sun slid down behind the old brick mill across the canal.
I have blocked much of that spring from my memory, I realize now as I skim through old photographs. It hasn't been a purposeful forgetting, just a failure to remember, a failure to hold on. I let whole days fall away, sloughing off the calendar like dead skin.
Memory and time feel different to me now. I gather up moments, days, and press them to my face like blossoms. When they finally fall from the stem of my weeks, I scoop them into bowls and jars and drawers to save, letting their scent linger.
Let the sun slip from the sky. Let night's heavy lid close over my dreams. I remember all that I need, all that is good, all that my heart can hold.