There is beginning a forgetting. I noticed it yesterday. I used to listen to crows call, and it would immediately take me back to falls past, tramping over great fields of harvested corn, of football games to play, church socials, girlfriends, and the freedom to just hang around. But yesterday, they were mostly just crows calling across Swan Pond, where my lover and I rode bikes. As I rode along, I tried to remember the feelings those cries used to call up in me, the meaning of being, the memory of such wonderful days long ago. I could not. Now, only the forgotten dearness of my past. My past, as I guess all past, is mainly the sweet joy of those days, tied to sounds, crows calling, smells, falls drying sweetness, and the longing to be young again. Growing old is profound, filled with overwhelming meaning that can make you weep, and one, the forgetting of the knowing of meaning. It truly turns me on to think of growing old and the poems, prayers, and promises I will not know I have forgotten.
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