What to Save

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.