I have a dried leaf that represents a memory. It floats around my ever changing pile of stuff slowly breaking apart; I wonder if it will ever reach a point when it stops degrading, crumbling piece by piece, and getting smaller and smaller.


Written some time later maybe years.
This memory has faded enough now for me to remember the person the feelings but not how I got the leaf of even why it was so significant. In a way depressing. With many things the fading of the past is a fading of the possibilities.