Memory is a tenuous thing. . . .

flickering glimpses, blue
and white, like ancient,
decomposing 16mm film.
Happiness escapes
me there, where faces
are vague and yesterday
seems to come tied
up in ribbons of pain.

Happiness? I look for it intead
in today, where memory
is something I can still
touch, still rely on.
I find it in the smiles
of new friends, the hope
blossoming inside.

My happiest memories
have no place in the
past; they are those
I have yet to create.

Author: Ellen Hopkins

Memory is a tenuous thing. . . .<br /><br />flickering glimpses, blue<br />and white, like ancient,<br />decomposing 16mm film.<br />Happiness escapes<br />me there, where faces<br />are vague and yesterday<br />seems to come tied<br />up in ribbons of pain.<br /><br />Happiness? I look for it intead<br />in today, where memory<br />is something I can still<br />touch, still rely on.<br />I find it in the smiles<br />of new friends, the hope<br />blossoming inside.<br /><br />My happiest memories<br />have no place in the<br />past; they are those<br />I have yet to create. - Ellen Hopkins



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