(Story)

     Sometimes I wish all of my bright memories could play themselves out long enough for me to see each detail, to notice each shade of brown eyes, to see each color of freckles on each face, and to feel the wind and the temperature and the sun on my arms. Each word, each unspoken conversation; I want to relive and rebreathe it, to engrave them in my head, ready to be opened at any moment I want them. But they are not. The colors are blurred, and the pain and sadness have blended with the adventure over time, and I see the story bright and smeared with ink. Earthy colors; tree greens and ocean blues, and the kind of golden brown you find in the barley that sways at sunset. They became beautiful, as if the past is all right with the flaws and failure. The hues have swallowed the darkness so it is easy for me to call each day bliss and each year glory. The twisting plot, the suffering piece, the sharp words in the deep sea script. My story is perfect. I believe that. But our hearts take quite a beating as our sailing stories are written to perfection. Looking back, I find walls and chapters that are shut, and I don't remember shutting them. Maybe these stories will unfold, piece by piece, and my heart will open with each page written and word spoken.