If I strolled along the crest of hill overlooking the 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 peel away their protection, what we discover once exposed to the light of present day might not reveal the knowledge we anticipated so anxiously.
Alternatively, 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 egg of time. Within it lies trapped the fragile innocence of youth we then believed 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 echoing whispered promises of joy and forever, we might discover that promises were a moment's gift, and 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 do, when he drops to strike his prey.
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