Heart pictures. Nanoseconds of my life curated with the utmost care, tucked away and saved over these years. I take them out every once in a while, roll them over in my hands, gaze at them with unfocused eyes, memorize their shape, study them in detail.
I am a museum.
Endless portraits of sunsets, rolling hills, fields of corn. But the landscape section of my museum will never be filled up.
The image of a scarf floating through the wind, tied loosely around a boy’s neck. The glow of the dashboard of some car where dreams were shared and tears were wasted. An oar dipped in river water.
Some bad things too. The tears on my mother’s cheek when she realized what she had done. My sister hunched over a coffin as our father tried to pull her away. My friend’s shoulder as he hugged me in despair.
These heart pictures have sounds attached to them most of the time. The giggles of my teenage roommates as they opened christmas presents. Mom’s soprano floating through the house. Languages I dont understand. The knife sharpener that meant dinner was almost ready. Screams of excitment during my first roller coaster ride. Music. Endless music.
And suddenly, in the midst of confusion and pain and questions and busyness, I understand that old phrase we hear this time of year….”For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne.”