Moments

Moments fly off and leave a trail behind you like dust clouds. Most settle somewhere in the forgotten, become irretrievable, no longer connected to your life. Some survive and accumulate on the sticky frame of what holds you together, particles which, by themselves, mean nothing, but in number become the narrative of your past. Some find their way here, arguing significance, others bubble up as if defying gravity, free of purpose, life's loose coin. You spend much of your time sorting through the odd collection, arranging into orders of magnitude, of pain, or joy or how much they've shaped who you are. In the quiet still of evenings when you are alone, they seem to reanimate and gorge like aphids on the branches of your life. Sleep is no refuge. They come back in dreams dressed in different guises, playing out the variations on a secret fear or grind away trying to resolve something you left incomplete last week or a lifetime ago. Each morning as you come to, they rush in to reassemble you, adding more, and at the same time, letting a little more of you go.