Perhaps your memory is hazy as sea glass, smooth and etched into
softer blues, subtle greens or chalky whites. The clarity of a window you
passed long ago has faded. You remember church bells, the smell of basil, the
day you found your car had been towed, but then the sun melts into the bay
and here you are.
Maybe a bad memory is no memory at all, but a haunting. It could
be a story someone told you, a newspaper column about a Japanese woman who
died and was eaten by her cats, or the other stories you read for
pleasure. Sometimes you wonder what’s behind that door you closed, the place
where you came from, and then you're treading dark water. Your bad memory is
like a stray dog that wanders off somewhere and once home, you think it may
carry a disease or it must have ticks or fleas.
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