The Conductor of Memories

I remind myself, you can't.

You can't open this, or the Magic will be lost.

You don't squeeze toothpaste in, or rein the genie back again.

Once uncorked, memories are gone for. Gone for-- I can't say good. Forever.

So, I stare at them upon the shelf, in the vault, where I leap in heart from moment to moment, astonished that these all look identical in identical tiny glass jars. Like turpentine or acetone or some other potent blood thinner. Colorless, odorless, without viscosity, when trapped like this. Vials like for laboratory testing. But in my mind, I can relive them one by one, and I run a gloved hand soulfully over the easy peel label across the fronts. I notice that some over the years have turned, as if shyly, away from me. There are those that have faded in the light. I must have stared at these a lot. Unlike the ones that have remained crisp and dark. The chest tightens as I note the ones that are blank, till I realize that these must be "at the ready" for what is yet to come-- containers in abundance for as far as the eye can see. I shudder at the recognition. When I die, we close this tomb that was, "Infinite Possibility."

If I could take one, just one, just-- a sense of panic takes me over. I've never been good at these momentous decisions.

Will it be Sunrise Mountain? where I simultaneously touched the sky, and the ground, and a peach tree blossom with a humble bee umming to three stubborn donkey, and I watered these sensations into someone else's eye and ear, so as not to keep it, selfishly. It reminded me of the Almighty. The picture of the bench a top that peak I bought like a pipe recollecting Native American Heritage.

Creativity coursing through sinews and arteries-- I know it smells like sandalwood and vanilla in mediation. It tastes like offerings of chocolate and Moscato on the last day of Summer, and sounds like the pouring of purest wild raw unfiltered honey...

I shouted your name?! and the valley echoes mine instead.

I couldn't find the label.