malleable memories flit about, nonlocal,
little fireflies waiting to be caught –
which memories will we choose?
We’ll scoop them up – the ones that hurt
the ones that make us smile
the ones that allow us to
hold onto our stories for just
a little while longer
no longer are they real – just dreams
fireflies on a cold, dark night.
we’ll snatch them up
and put them in jars –
making stories out of our collections.
Our recollections grow hazy
behind memories trapped in glass
tapping it lightly with tiny wings
these are the little things that we tell ourselves
because sometimes we must –
that it was perfect, and nothing was wrong.
we can live by the glow of these night-lit jars,
inviting our friends in to see them.
“They’re beautiful,” they’ll say
“What a story you have”
we’ll smile – safe and hidden.
but perhaps one day, someone will ask
about the rest of those memories
we’ll remember that field of fireflies –
infinite ways we could have crafted the story
but why think about those, when the warm light
of our memories keeps us glowing – or at least going –
holding on… to something.
Because perhaps we’re just not ready to know
that for every one of our little jars of stories,
someone else has their own
and maybe we’re not ready to know this
to own this
or to let our little fireflies go