History becomes remembrance when you leave the past behind.
Even the bad that could never be turned into good, becomes its best version of sepia and gold nostalgia, while that which was truly good and green, and can never be recaptured, becomes a dagger in your faint-beating, grey-fringed heart.
Playful turns to wistful.
Wishes to ashes.
Until, long forgotten by next-of, next-of kin, in the collective mind of the cosmos, it is held as it was on the day of its formation, new in all minds, as it once was in one.
Fresh as infancy, and with the hope of forever, eternal.
© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday