If I strolled along the crest of a hill overlooking sand dunes hiding the beach from view you would not see my passing. Yet if I walked where you saw me as you had long in the past you would not know me. Memories are cellophane wrappers carefully applied to preserve what we experienced.

They rattle when we touch them, as if in warning, telling us that if we peeled away their protection, what we discovered once exposed to the light of present day might not reveal the knowledge we anticipated so anxiously.

Instead, if knowledge was not our desire but a comparison between then and now we might learn that what we left behind was a tenuous crystal eggshell of time. Within it lies trapped the fragile innocence of youth we then believed to be filled with the wisdom reserved for those who lived long enough to understand the true definition of tolerance upon which wisdom roots itself most securely.

Moreover, if we sought fondness along with those echoed whispers promises of joy and forever we might discover that promises were a moment’s gift and that forever ended a moment later.

Haunted by the why of yesterday we might learn that the why of today is but the precursor. Perhaps every why goes unanswered when definition is proven unnecessary? Asking may be a delay but not a query.

The sand across the top of the dunes swirled under a stiff breeze’s persuasion rattling across my feet as I moved forward. I will not walk where you might see me. I do not want to see you. Let the rustling cellophane of memory fade as a hawk’s feathers shivering the air does when she folds wings and drops to strike prey.

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