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Where do you live?
Where do you live?
When you're happy, where do you live? When you're sad, where do you live? When you're tired, where do you live? When you're real, where do you live?
Where you live is not an address, not a zip code, not a house. Where you live is not encumbered by furniture, by grass needing mowing, by dishes needing washing.
Where you live is in a simple place north of your heart called memories. They are to the west of your feelings and the to the east of your hopes. They're all neighbors. They keep each other company.
Your memories don't hide in a dusty shoebox on the top shelf of the closet or in the lower left drawer of your bureau. They're visitors that come unbidden, halfway between sleep and awake, while you wait at a stoplight, while putting on your shoes. They attach themselves to rubber chickens and silver bears, really, to anything you hold dear.
Your memories are a luster of plump pearls in a setting of jagged glass, with a string of life between them. Some pieces sooth and fill with warmth and others are still sharp, cutting quick, hurting tender. You didn't pick your memories -- they came to you. They prove that you are still alive. Yeah!
They introduce you to your neighbor, hope. In hope's house are many jig-saw puzzles still half done, taking yesterday's memory pieces, fitting them into tomorrow's pictures. Hope never rests, always joying in a new piece that fits snug in, perfectly matched to the rest. The jagged pieces prove the best color and clarity, but are rarely freely given, but hope waits patiently, waiting for feelings to release them.
So where you live keeps you alive. Your pearls and glass are family jewels. You paid dearly for them. Keep them safe.
10/14/2005 2:55 pm
Wow, Nic, thanks for your gracious thoughts. Seems like my post spurred ideas you already had going on in your head. My best to you.|