thoughts on memory

A faded memory is a curious thing--

a thing so washed and tattered, covered with collected dust and fur, or pressed between sections of old newspaper. But sometimes, when your mind sweeps the corner between latin class and childhood vacations, the old dust flies up and gets in your eyes. Sometimes you finger the yellowed text of a letter, misplaced in Arts and Culture, Section B. It's the thinnest brushes of a spidery spirit when you wonder if you've walked through a web. But that gossamer thing can't catch you, and your steady fingers delicately brush it away.