These memories are but the shadows
Of what happened in my younger years—
The rough outlines of how it was—
Laid across the imperfect lawn of my mind
And stretched the more out of proportion
The later it gets in my day.
And having since learned to care robustly about things—
And now insufferably curious at an age
Where many would think it odd
To be caring more than less—
I have so often wished I could
Trace the memories back to their origins,
To see with new eyes what I experienced at first—
In hopes of a better understanding.
And though I glean from my memories less than I would like—
And have learned at least not to trust their every conclusion—
I wonder whether I might at length
See those events all over again at a heavenly review of my life.
For it strikes me that God might also be the sort
To think that it’s important for people to understand.
