…wishing I could remember the dreams and aspirations of my childhood.
Some days I can feel them, like delicate translucent butterflies, dancing around the edges of my consciousness.
I reach out to hold their fragile flutterings…
…but the gossamer edges of their existence slips from my grasp and they dance away on a breeze or a whim.
If I could only remember them…
I would carefully write each one on a tiny slip of paper in indelible ink and fold them into the safety of a little glass jelly jar,
…airtight and safe…
…to keep them from slipping away, yet again.
I wonder what might happen if I took that tightly sealed jar-of-my-heart and planted it…
In a garden.
In rich, fragrant soil that smells of the future and the past.
If I were to cover that small canning jar with little bits of moist, crumbly loam until it was buried deep and true...
...would those dreams grow again?
Or would they simply disintegrate with time and eventually disappear again?
When do the dreams become the past and not the possibility?
I’m not sure how this happens.
Or when it happens.
Or even if it happens to everyone.
TonightI have placed a little jelly jar, here on the edge of my desk.
I see it sparkle.
It's emptiness entices me to fill it with tiny bits of paper scrawled with those dreams and aspirations.
I just can’t quite remember what to write on those slips of paper.
In the meantime, though, just so the jar isn’t empty…
I shall put into it a tiny rock given to me by our youngest Granddaughter for safekeeping.
And an errant marble shot through with sky blue and sunset red.
And a purple rock with the texture and sheen of mercury.
I will fill this empty little jar with my life as it is now…
…and someday I will remember those dreams.
And I will hold them tenderly in my hand.
And I will dream them again.