hippocampus

What would your memory look like if I lifted the lid of your head and had a peek?

Like the teddy bear that still sits on your childhood bed?

Or the monster you were certain hid underneath?

Like the broken spine of your favorite book?

Or the broken dinner plate that got you grounded for a week?

What would that memory feel like if I reached inside and touched it?

Like the warmth of the fire on a cool August evening?

Or the bitter cold of a winter night’s wind?

Like the spinning globe beneath your fingertip?

Or the torn paper of your dream-schools’ rejection?

What would that memory smell like if I plucked it out and took a sniff?

Like your grandmother’s pumpkin pie?

Or the smoke of cigarettes that took her life?

Like your favorite flowers that your favorite person bought you?

Or the slightly green water that you left them in for a bit too long?

And what would that memory sound like, if I held it to my ear?

Like a symphony orchestra, on opening night?

Or a fifth grader trying to plan an oboe for the first time?

Like the applause at a graduation ceremony?

Or the quiet sobs from a funeral?

Tell me. Show me. Try.