I remember being shy.
just sitting cross-legged on the carpet and
listening to everyone else talk.
I didn’t mind not talking,
I was listening.
I remember running up to an old oak tree
with my preschool classmates,
placing a sheet of paper over the bark
and pressing a fat red crayon
to the surface,
tracing the tree’s every ridge and bump.
I brought the paper home
and Mom snapped it onto the fridge with a magnet.
I remember late at night
at a beach house named the Salty Dog.
It was my sister, Hannah, my best friend at the time, Ryan, and me in one room.
We were staring at a frightening picture
hung up on the wall of the room and
we could not sleep with the painting in sight.
Complaining to our parents, we made them
take down the painting and could finally sleep fearlessly.
In the light of day, the very next morning,
I found the picture and decided it was not scary with
sunlight shining on the paint’s surface.
I remember too much to put down on paper,
too much for leftover room in my mind.
I can recall what happened years ago,
one year ago,
a month ago,
five seconds ago.
Reminiscing should be a hobby, or at least a beloved pastime,
because there is so much to reflect on,
so much to remember and laugh or cry about,
so much to want to keep forever.