(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 3, 2015)

Misattribution. Imagination mistaken for memory.

False memory that there were little pink teacups on my twelve-month birthday cake.

False memory that there were maleficent masks iron-worked into the bars of my crib.

False memory of my wedding after the photographs took over.

False memory of watching Bob Saget do standup on cable TV with Nellie and Donna and this being long before Full House ever started.  

False memory of everything my mother said never happened.

The past is partial and true and untrue; partially there and not there.

Chords of our mind in wet knots and dry brittle knots and eroding.

Theorists would have it be all or nothing: why hold on to the vapor of the past?

Why cherish what is ultimately ungraspable?

But the solid ground was built by the past.

But the solid ground has sinkholes.

Walk carefully. Walk slowly. Feel the ground under the palms of your feet.

Feel the tremor of the now before your memory takes it away.