Memory

When she was four or five, and it had rained very hard,  we put on our boots and jackets and went to Harrison St. where the deepest puddles were.  We splashed around until we felt we had tested the rain gear sufficiently and found it satisfactory. Or not.  For a few minutes, we were roughly the same age.













photo by Enzo D.
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1 comment:

  1. AnonymousMay 10, 2010 at 8:16 PM

    Patty,
    What a beautiful memory....held in every shiny puddle.
    Love,
    Susan

    ReplyDelete

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How Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created—not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

> From A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry