remembering

I remember sprinklers, man-made rainbows, poking holes in glass jars for fireflies. I remember always being an early riser, my father’s words echoing in my head, something about dew and grass, morning, barefeet and wisdom. How they all intertwine.

I remember deep ends of swimming pools and the messiness of Baskin Robbins mint chocolate chip ice cream and wooden playsets and learning the names of flowers—begonias and magnolias and honeysuckle. I remember wildness too, blackberries on the side of the road and unbrushed hair under baseball caps, frayed overalls and mismatched socks. This is how I remember summer and youth and love and freedom.

This is how I remember time.

I remember the courage in believing in endless possibilities—that I could be a singer or writer or anything in between. I remember too when I was told these weren’t options, when a teacher’s red line sharpened the line between childhood and adulthood. I remember wondering where I went wrong.

I remember right after graduate school, recognizing that sometimes the friends you think will be there for you no matter what can disappoint you, choosing instead to turn away because what you are dealing with may be uncomfortable and scary and real. I remember learning what it means to have true friends, the ones that stick by you no matter what, that continue to reach out despite your failings. Those friends are rare but their love inspires me to connect with others.

There is significance and implication and love in remembering. In nostalgia and the past and the way we get from here to there. There is absolute redemption. There is renewal.

Don’t allow one person to tell you you can’t. You can do absolutely anything if you believe, if you believe in fireflies and moonlight dancing and dewed grass and redemption. Believe in the impossible and you will find possibility.