Passing of Times

  I remember ever so sharply the more distant moments of my past.  I can remember far back to my first years of consciousness, perhaps 3 or 4 years old.  I could not comprehend even what age was at the time, but I could remember the finest details of our somewhat old and rundown, yet ever so familiar home.  I could recall the dreamlike sharpness of the silver faucet in our kitchen sink, the brownish tinge of the soft carpet beneath my feet, and the flare of the bleeding-blue sky outside my window.  There was the greatest satisfaction in the simplest of things, from the mere planting of a cornstalk to the feeding of ducks and fishes.  I cared less for the future and more for the moment.  Each day held a new surprise.  Baby birds would occasionally fall from the tree in the front lawn.  Frogs and crickets could be found in the backyard if one searched hard enough.  The world was unbounded.  One day I found myself finally able to ride a bike; the next I spent learning to travel on a pogostick.  My greatest ambitions would perhaps be to skate or bike ever so faster or to perhaps fly a kite or paper plane ever so higher.  If I had any wish it would be to fly, literally, without limits.

  The darker moments would cling in the more distant corners of my conscience.  My deepest memory would perhaps be the earsplitting shrieks of my mother directed to none other than me, for what I did not know, but I would remember the moments of actual chilling fear that would creep in, paralyzing me from head to toe.  At the same time, I could recall a night spent thrown out of the house, into a near pitch-black garage, where the only source of light was a shimmering bulb held high on the wall, far out of my reach.  A bizarre dream that could have occurred at any time would involve being locked away in a pitchblack store watching my family drive off into a stormy night without me.  I could remember being just a tad bit too carefree in lending my bike to my friend while I traveled on foot, only to lose my footing amidst the gravel and land faceflat in the cement, followed by the grinding of my spine as my own friend rode directly over me on my own bike.  Whether it be a memory or nightmare, I know not, but also scarred in my mind would be the memory of riding in a truck, on not too bright a day, only to find us swerving off a highway, through the siderails, and off the edge of a bridge.   Nonetheless, I remember them all, far more vividly than I would like.

  Yet, as I think back for the moment, just what I lived through last month, I could recall nothing.  Strain as hard as I might, nothing would become familiar.  Even last week, even yesterday, even the last hour, I would find trouble remembering.  Nothing stands out anymore; nothing is unique.

  Every so often, I try to revisit the past.  I still try to plant a few crops once in a while, but I would lose interest before it even sprouted.  Sometimes I look through my folders, still expecting my age-old drawings; sometimes I would look down beneath my feet, wondering why I was standing on hard, cold floor.  As I shuffle through my papers, I often find myself beginning to write a 9, only to erase it and put 08.