She looked at me in her muddled state with eyes that had never been clearer, dark blue diamonds with storms beneath the surface. There were clouds of dialogue floating over every mind around us, and she sliced the sky with her words in only a whisper.
“I think every mind has a graveyard”, she said to me through the fog, “Some are just more decorated than others”
And above us the adults paused for a toast, raised their glass stems in the artificial air. And below us the children created scribbled worlds on paper with colored wax and pastel ink. All of them with graveyards tucked away, shrouded by background noise; not the static on the radio, just an easy-listening station.
“I wonder”, she said, “Who forgot to lay flowers on mine?”
It’s a complicated equation, one part afterthought and two parts unknown, a cocktail of a set-in-stone past and an uncertain future. For every momentary memorial, there’s two already buried memories, resurrected only in the corners of the mind.
For each one who chooses to take the scenic route down memory lane, there are two who opt for the last known exit off of life in the fast lane.