The Texas Ditch

I remember.

Alone in a haze. The warmth of tears slipping down my cheeks.

Overcast sky, a setting sun and brushed by a cool autumn breeze.

I sat there telling myself this was the last cigarette I would ever be able to smoke in my life.

But really, this was the last time I’d sit, willfully taking the world in.

Creating my last memory at the Texas ditch.

Memories.

Memories.

Memories are so vivid. Distinct. So individual.

Unique to whom they are derived. And with those they die.

They rest virally. Undetected and dormant.

But in the details of a sentence, the tint of a smell, their vivid replay brings everything back as it were happening in real time.

Brough about by sounds. Music.

Evoking those exact emotions, over once again.

Can’t escape, can’t forget, or don’t want to forget? Whichever, unavoidable.

I remember walking to along the muddy slopes of the ditch. Towards the edge of the dense brush and wood.

Pine trees towering above the backs of houses, barely shielding the rays of sunlight beaming down.

A look to the right at the murky waters, just below the deeply sloped edges of the ditch.

And in a second I was underwater.

Cold shock, body lock. Fully clothed, jeans and shoes.

Their weight drug me down stronger than my swimming arms could generate lift.

All I could do was reach for the muddy edge and dig my fingernails in.

I lost my purple “el camino.” Converse.

I’m not sure how managed to pass for dripping wet and struck with scent of the murky, turtle water I just escaped from.

That was the end of my memory.

But I did.

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About Emmy

Cats. Dogs. Vegan? Philadelphia folk no longer. View all posts by Emmy

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