12/11/2003

Its funny how much a person can forget in a year, ten, how new experiences push and shove one another trying to wedge out a memory in order to take its space. For years you have seven numbers memorized you swear they're are impossible to forget yet 10 years and 14 numbers down the road they're all jumbled up, the order and exact numbers escape you now. People like me try to let the past go, what use is memorizing and remembering things when there are so many new things to experience, yet we all have things that we try to remember and for years the memories come up crystal clear, then five years pass and its a little fuzzy at the edges, ten and its just glimpses. But those glimpses the ones I held to tightly, those are still real to me. Its funny what memories mean the most.

My mothers hair smelled of patchouli and cigarettes.
It only existed braided, or wildly.
Strong and free.
Frizzy, frazzled, and damaged.
My mothers hair was unending.
Like her love, it never stopped.
Never compromised with dye or scissors.
In the wind it would wave wildly entangling.
Forming bonds with itself impossible to break.
Always slightly messy.
My mothers hair mirrored her soul.
Never compromised, but always growing.
It was sure to stay with you.
As pieces remained after each encounter.
My mothers hair was unforgettable
A defining characteristic.
My mothers hair represented comfort.
Safety. Warmth. Love. Peace.
Compassion. And understanding.
My mothers hair hid weakness.
Covered pain.
My mothers hair was beautiful
It smelled of patchouli and cigarettes.