I have no stories to tell, no life experiences that come to mind when I sit down to write. But I want to write. This exercise in publishing has grown the desire to put the words somewhere other than my mind. I can not trust the archives that hide themselves in the ridges of my brain. At some point in the future the attendants of those sacred library halls will stop working, the shelves will grow dusty, the information will not be accessed anymore. What will I do then?

It must be now. I must harness the possessive energy that labels itself as my creative-side. Like a horse, I will attach myself to it and ask that it leads me through the countryside of the community of artists.

I long to share the same memorial wall as my heros, the greats of their fields, the names that people will remember forever. Again the pursuit of immortality, maybe my acts are a path to that future. While I can’t live forever, I can push my feelings into a solid form and leave them for generations to come.

Hopefully they won’t look at it as an excrement, needlessfly flushed from my system in an effort to clear myself. Yes, I want to clear the walls of my mind of these thoughts. To put the words that dance behind my eyes, that keep my company in the quiet moments, onto paper so that others might see that they aren’t alone with those thoughts.

I have watched as family members decline into the darkness of dementia. To be lost, with no access to the library of your mind to understand the context of your life. Like the grim reaper, the same fate sits at the foot of my bed waiting for weakness to wash over my soul. It holds out its hand, and wants me to hand over my agency, for me to hand over the control of my life to the people around me. Again, who will that be? If it is someone who has met me that day, will they make the decision I want them to make?

I’m sure I have memories worth sharing. Stories worth telling and moments worthy of a retelling.

It was a weekend vacation, my moms fascination with the past had dragged us to another coastal town where the 1700’s were evident in the architecture. The weaping willows cried and the ocean waves repeatedly marched against the shore. We board a ferry to travel to an island that was once owned by a rich family and has now become a museum to both yesterday and nature. Wild horses roam the island, and the paths between the dunes changed their width between a simple sandy stream to a gravel filled creak.

While on the ferry, inside I sat across from my parents on the wooden benchs of a booth styled table. My mother became fascinated with the menu that had been hung up behind me that listed the various food items available for purchase at the ships bar. She was mouthing something, trying to figure out it’s pronunciation.

“What do you think Pat Cheese is? Is it French you think or maybe a grilled cheese?” she posed to my father and me.

As I turned and read the sign, a pegboard styled sign where you pushed letters with pins on the back into it. I skimmed past the chips, the drinks and in the middle with a little extra space was a word that’s spacing, I guess, could be misinterpreted.

“PAT CHES” it stated to all who read it.

“Patches? I think that says patches.” I laughed as my father laughed at the same discovery.

Embarrassed a little, she laughed. “Oh, I guess that does say patches doesn’t it”

It’s been 12 years since I lost my mom, and I find I’m losing touch with what she was like. How she sounded, what her mannerisms were, and why she was who she was. I know it’s inherently in me, she spent 20 years instilling herself into my mind. This moment doesn’t have much else around it, it’s all I have of a great day I spent with her and yet my brain only decided to keep this one. I must focus to find more so that they might be immortalized.