Memories stay nestled among the million other thoughts squirming around in your head and make themselves readily available when you need one for comfort. It's kind of like a soft cushion to catch a fall off the deep end -- the days were you know the cliff will no longer be able to hold both you and the weight on your shoulder. Yeah, that kind of comfort.
There are even times when you realize that some memories are better left buried between the beaten pages of your junior high diary, and are only useful during raging events of frustration or as a fire starter (I hear paper with a coating is harder to burn, so stay away from fru-fru designs when purchasing a journal.)
There are also the constant reminders like the scar on your right shin that's almost shaped like a heart. The one that you earned when you climbed the apple and pear trees in the backyard just to prove you 'had it in you'.
Or, there's the trekking down to the creek into the deep forest just minutes away from home. It was my cousins and my escape from reality -- our version of a secret garden. We spent what seemed like a lifetime in those woods, and probably brought back enough ticks and insect bites to cause a quarantine.
Then, there is the sense of nostalgia I feel when I think about the way my grandmother prepared (and still does) a pot of soup. Whenever the wind blew or the temperature dropped below sixty degrees, you can bet a warm bowl of something would soon follow.
There's something about the pot of soup that holds more meaning than just having a hearty meal waiting at home. That soup, ironically, became a metaphor for my life. Before you tell me how delusional I am, or that you share the same memories from a pack of vanilla wafers, let me explain (Sit down. Pull a chair up).
There's an empty pot (Your youth filled with innocence).
Ingredients are combined (Peer pressure, adolescence, school, love, life, etc).
The soup starts boiling (You're growing up and changing constantly).
The aroma fills the air (Life couldn't be any better).
The soup is stirred after boiling over (Things happen).
The temperature is reduced to a simmer (No more cloud 9. It's the real world now).
A bowl is filled with soup (Your are thankful for all the good in your life despite hardship).
The soup is savored (God is good).
You drink the broth (Your cup runneth over).
You are full and satisfied (It could be worst).
The soup is slowly devoured (Life goes on whether we want it to or not).
It's all gone (Nothing good can last forever).
I know. What. A. Nut. Job? Who compares life to a bowl of soup and gets away with it? Well, I can tell you that one of the perks of having a blog is being able to write about whatever you like. The worst that can happen is that someone makes fun of you, and that's easy to get over.
The point I'm trying to make is, memories can be good or bad. Use them for what they are worth. Know when it's time to move on.
For the sake of your sanity, and stomach, know when to pull away from the table because you've had enough!