Memories

I completely forgot to write something last night, and then haven't been back to my computer since 8 this morning, so I decided to simply post a poem that I wrote earlier this week in my journal.

Strong Lingerings

It is when tiredness had disarmed me, in silence,
that the memories come
rushing towards me
with such force.

The vivid colours,
the strange but familiar smells,
the well known cool roughness of a wall,
the sounds of song or a distant call to prayer.

They come upon me with such poignant certainty
that even joyous memories become sharply painful
for they are simply that -
memories.

On most days I am glad for memories.
They are the lingering wisps
of transient experience,
wound around in my head to treasure or forget or suddenly remember.

In a flash I can see
the light reflecting off the smooth concrete floor
after Zorah has cleaned them,
as I lightly leap from one square tile to the next.

I can smell steaming vegetables and spices in the green kitchen
and sun on the hibiscus hedge.
Or Dad's leather change purse
or the distinctive smell of an artisan's shop.

Yet other days memories seem almost cruel
such vividness
such surprising strength
nearly obscuring the present moment.

It is when tiredness had disarmed me, in silence,
that the memories come
rushing towards me
with such force.