She feels forgotten sometimes. Some people close have moved far yet in her mind she maintains this previous image of them. The way they smiled, smelled, and laughed. The faces move around so quickly they blur, speed up, and suddenly she is again in the present moment. Her hands move slower, her expression covers up a slight frown and she moves on. She moves on every single day. knowing they too, are moving on every single day. She tells herself some superior being must have given her this ability to write, combined with the ability to perceive experiences in such a detailed way.

She drives by the farm, they all grew up upon, and it still looks the same. She thinks, The same bricks have been there my whole  life and maybe they will be there after I die. And then someone else will think the same thing.

“All that matters is the memories.”

The words bounce off one side of her brain to the other.

“This is what it feels like to be old.”

The thought doesn’t disturb her because it couldn’t get worse. She has faced it. She faces it every single day when she drives the same street she rode her bike upon as a child. The memories are as vibrant as they were the day they were created.She knows all that matters is the memories in the essence that all that matters is the words because in the end they are only what is left. The same wood that made the barn she passed as a child is still there. The same pothole I tried to avoid is still there. The same houses. But the people….all gone. All off to the races.

And I miss my sisters out there in the world. Their beautiful faces stand out in a crowd. But people must shine always through the rain, through the pain, and always gain purpose.