Everyone’s life has a place where it keeps

all the important memories

whether it is a box or a shelf,

A cart or a peanut butter jar,

or even,

a library.

It keeps both good and bad memories on its dusty shelves

If I choose to descend into the lower floors,

I would notice the shadows lurking inside old, rotting books

Looking closer, I would see that the books

Are in fact memories,

Hopes,

Dreams,

Things lost,

And found.

Every experience, stored here within the infinite capacities, of my life’s library.

The further down I go, the harder it is to read the titles.

The books are more worn and dull and dusty.

I reach the bottom floor, and go to the last shelf.

The shelf that is hidden. Blanketed in shadows

Veiled in dust and the utter silence.

I reach out and take the lone book

Sitting there on the dark bottom corner of the shelf.

The cover is made of soft brown paper

That is torn and falling apart,

I sit on the floor, finding that one spot.

Worn down and the only spot in the whole room,

Not covered in dust because I sat there

So many times holding that one memory

But unable

To read it.

I lift up the book,

Flip it open to the first page,

And read.