Memory in Green

I believe that we all need to make peace with our memories. We've all done things that make us recoil, flinch, or, even, sometimes, utter a small cry. 

Memories are a shroud, a foggy shroud that we carry around from the moment that we create our first memory. Memories are the only true secret that any of us can keep. Even those who think that they have the same memories fail to see the thing exactly as we see it.

I try to wrangle my memories sometimes. I try to gather them and put them in a locked box, or at least a box with a tight lid, but somehow they escape. They waft through the foggy air, usually at night or on misty winter evenings, to engulf me. Memories are not kind; they don't "light the corners of my eye." Sometimes, but mostly not.

Gathering my memories together takes courage, which is something I don't really have a great deal of although people think I do. They think I'm strong. I suppose I am in a certain way. I'm strong at hiding my emotions, at closing my eyes, at shuttering things away that I find unpleasant.

Although I can't remember most things nowadays, there are certain things that I think that I will never forget no matter how I long for forgetfulness. I long for forgetfulness even if it means that the pleasant parts are gone also.

Sometimes memories bring guilt. I do feel guilty, but that's not why I want the memories to go away. Guilt is only residual.

There is a song, by the Platters, I think. It's called "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes." I think it a lovely song, a bittersweet song.

They asked me how I knew
My true love was true
I of course replied
Something here inside
Cannot be denied

 
They, said someday you'll find
All who love are blind
When you heart's on fire
You must realize
Smoke gets in your eyes

 
So I chaffed them, and I gaily laughed
To think they would doubt our love
And yet today, my love has gone away
I am without my love

 
Now laughing friends deride
Tears I cannot hide
So I smile and say
When a lovely flame dies
Smoke gets in your eyes