remember the time

he was old enough now to feel nostalgia without it being just a passing  thought of something that he used to like. the memories of the days past and the events, people and places that had defined them had melted together and been wrapped into the sepia-colored veil of an old photograph, warm and gentle and soft. it allowed him to forgive and concentrate on what had mattered; or rather, what mattered now. some things he was able to remember with a striking clarity, whereas others were obscure like a dream you can't quite recall except for the way it made you feel; and yet it troubled him that he couldn't be sure if any of these things had indeed taken place, if the days he now longed for had been real.


for what is a memory if not an interpretation?