There are memories that can’t be spoken, but which etch themselves into the garments of the soul to become wisdom.
There are places that with time become more vivid as we understand the layers of experience, land, culture, history, and unspoken things that give meaning without knowing. We put them around ourselves to become the cloak of identity.
There are lawns, mosses, and soil that if walked again would be more keenly felt, more soaked in, more nurtured in the memory. The feet are bare as the memory takes us walking there again.
There are moments where I collected images that would now be accompanied by scents and colour.
Without hunger, would taste and food be so strongly knit into memory.
Tables laden with treats spring out at me, banquets in between the moments of a grumbling stomach, provided by people at celebrations.
There are questions I would have asked, to make a person’s story come alive. Where are the trails back to them now?
Some of them are gone in the fire and the storms.
Who could tell me more about them?
Will they speak, or is it sometimes better to leave stories, unspoken, unwritten, and remembered for the journey of the soul into the great unknown?
Does the writer decides what is unwritten, and what is written?
(c) June Perkins