Evaporation

In some ways,
in lots of ways,
we spend our whole lives
in airplanes
swirling over
our memories,
looking down,
puzzling over those myriad
experiences we
unrolled with careful precision
or
threw to the world willy-nilly,
wondering why or how,
now,
we were
ever able to pull ourselves through?

We fly alone,
frowning at
"Oh my, I can't believe I used to . . ."
or
"Did I really look like that?!"
or
crying
at the time she broke
your heart
and despite
all your inner strength
and all your intelligent
ramblings on pride
and the transmigration of
soul
all you could feel
was the sadness
that seemed to materialize
from every molecule of your being
and all you could do was
lay down
on the steps
like a big dead bear
and weep
real
wet
tears.

Or
laughing at the
time you,
trying to look so cool
for them,
tripped
sprawling out,
falling on the floor
as you walked into the
grocery store
bumping your chin
hard in front of all those people
who couldn't help laughing.

Or
embracing the time you
chased
fireflies
alone in
the yard,
while everyone
sat around the
picnic table,
smoking
and throwing scuttlebutt.

Or
trying to
forget
the quiet days
you sat alone,
in that little room,
feeling pressed
to do more
or at least something
else
but powerless
to do anything
at all.

Circling overhead
like a fragile
little bird,
you reflect,
puzzling over
this landscape
you've created and molded,
and transformed,
like a god,
absorbing it,
before its all
over.

As the plane,
circling and circling
ever
tighter,
descends,
prepares to
bounce softly
to a landing
or throw itself
sharply landward,
you reflect.

You reflect.

The flight will soon end,
the journey will soon cease,
and there will be no one left
to remember all
these beautiful memories;
these beautiful memories
will evaporate into exinction.

It's then you realize . . .