What a gift it was to have seen my childhood.
To have been able to miss the silly things through and through.
What a gift it was for wisdom to enter my heart through womanhood
To have had youth so that I may know the difference between the two.
Allowing me to see the magic of a childhood that I could never quite grasp, lost in the fog of
Allowing me to reminisce through the photo albums lingering behind the eyes of friends.
Allowing me to carry around little souvenirs, as if I was a tourist in my own life. Little keepsakes that have written themselves onto my body.
Time is an artist.
Our histories are our storytellers.
That is our inheritance.
Our bodies remember that which our minds do not.
I am reminded of every sunset, of every sunrise.
For every sunset and for every sunrise, a brush has stroked a stream of memories into my being, so that
the colours may walk by my side, even when my eyes have closed.
What a gift it will be to grow old.
To catch up with all the words that are waiting for me.
To see the changes around me.
To celebrate all that I was, and all that I was not.
If tomorrow never comes, let me rejoice in my memories, for they mean that I was here.
And if tomorrow does come around.
know that you are the only one I'd wait with, for tomorrow.
— For my mother; Thank you for being my lighthouse.