So, the fact that i love literature- the journey, the lessons, the people I meet along the way: and it has shaped most of my life. I remember when i was 11 or younger and i would go to the library every week and that was what I most looked foreword to- the miles of books that stretched along ivory covered shelves, their spines broken and creased with time and love, the back of the elderly book shaped around the rotting pages and the torn skin. I loved running around with my mother in tow, dragging her along aisles until I was beside myself with a pile of books, especially in the summer, when the brisk air conditioned cooled the sweat on my forehead. I remember thumbing through with a concentrated look on my face: my pink tongue swelled to the front of my mouth, peeking through my innocently young lips. I remember penning titles on lists of summer reading books, and I was so proud. I see now my mother sitting near my bed, with her back propped up against the side, reading and reading and reading: I liked watching her mouth move. As I slipped into slumber I gazed at that mouth that kissed me on the forehead morphing and stretching itself into sounds, and words, and sentences, and how my world would eventually go dark and quiet.
Later, I remember writing down the words that once captivated me, even to the one syllabled, "a" or "the" that strung coherent thought together.
And now i remember this: I remember each moment as it passes by, a page so recently passed that you can quickly turn back the page and re-read the moment, but not rewrite it. And how i wish i could rewrite it. But remember it with love, like the last line of a book you can't re-read for the first time. A story where you can't remember the ending as much as you wish, then train wreck you can't wash out of your brain. Remember what you can't rewrite.
