I want to remember

I remember the happiest things

The first time I stepped out onto the ice in my

brand new, bright white ice skates.

The chill of the ice rose quickly to meet me

making me gasp, freezing me through

the tiny holes in my gloves.

After the gasp, I smiled.

The chill was a thrill; one that I hadn't felt before.

It was a thrill that I felt countless times over.

But none of those times was as poignant

as the first.

I remember spinning on ice the first time

The shaky step out into the spin

Throwing out my arms to gain momentum,

tossing out a leg because that's what I had to do.

The spin was shaky because I was too upright

I folded my arms to my chest

I crossed my outstretched leg over the one unevenly swiveling across the ice

I wobbled back and forth

The spin only lasted 7 seconds.

An unforgettable 7 seconds.

I felt the wind gusts sting my cheeks

I felt the ice being carved underneath

my left skate.

I saw all the skaters around me as colors

dragged out, like paint fading as it drips down a canvas

then disappearing after an unforeseeable point in time.

That's how my memories fade

dripping down my mind's canvas

with an initial vibrancy-

   I can still feel the cold

   still feel the shakiness

   still feel the ice beneath my left skate

   still hear the instructions whirling past me.

   still experience the spin.

Then the details that made my memory,

they all fade as time passes.

   I remember it was cold

   I still feel the shakiness

   I remember carving the ice with my left skate-

and I return to the memory after some time

to find a thin faded color dripping off my canvas.

   I remember the spin.

I can't experience it anymore

It happened - that I remember -

but I can't feel it

can't experience it,

I can't live it.

And isn't that the point of a memory?

Isn't it retained so we can live that moment again?

And the sad part is, the memory of my spin

the most unforgettable 7 seconds of my life,

will be forgotten.

Not a color anymore,

but a clean brush sweeping across my canvas.

And the canvas of my mine -

   if you go from top to bottom-

is a myriad of bright pictures

with all their bright colors

dripping down the canvas

of my mind

Fading, fading, fading

the lower I look down my canvas.

The colors start to mix

three quarters of the way down.

The colors of the memory of my first spin

mix with the colors of the painful first fall.

The memory of the spin is tainted-I start to see red

when I think of the spin

...or do I see happy colors when I think of the fall?

It's a jumbled mess.

The colors of all my pictures have all mixed together

in a faded pool of paint dripping off the canvas.

And which is which?

Was this deep blue from the loss of a love

   ...or the loss of myself?

Was this red from the time I fell

   ...or the time when I was insulted?

And the bright white truth hits me-

I've lost my memories.

They're tainted by colors of another memory.

   I no longer can live the spin

...if I can even remember it

I've lost my memories.

And so I began writing

because I thought that maybe I could trace back which picture this red belonged to

or this deep blue

or the gentle mauve

or this bright yellow.

So I wrote.

And little tickles-like clean paintbrushes brushing across my mind-

began to tell me where to begin

so I could trace the faded streams of paint back to the pictures they belonged to.

And slowly, the faded streams of paint down my mind's canvas

were cleared.

I saw pictures, scenes;

I relived what I thought I was losing.

From my writing

I could relive my first fall.

From my writing

I could relive my first spin.

The more vivid the work, the more real the memory.

I write to remember

the memories that one should never forget.

These things make me who I am;

give me an identity.