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Nostalgia; a Silent Killer

A year ago, my claim to fame was my inexperience. I had never seen an airplane up close, and I’d never been on a trip. My best friend, HG, took me on my first trip out of the province. We caught a flight to Calgary, AB and spent a week in Invermere, BC.

As a writer, I’m put to shame by my inability to articulate beauty. Can some things be so brilliant that you can’t quite put words to them? I recall driving up and down mountain slopes, music blaring, with the convertible top down. Mountain air is heavenly; I’ve never seen so many trees. HG and I share this experience, admittedly one she’s had several times since childhood, but one that will stand with me, a part of me, for the rest of my life.

My chest tightens when I think of how quickly memory fades. I journal for this purpose. I don’t want to leave behind the pieces of myself that are formed by these memories. If I recount them, will they stay alive? I read my story, cover to cover; am I myself, or a fan of what once was? Do I idealize people, places, and things in hindsight? These are questions I must answer, but I shall let them brew. Please, I welcome you, thoughts, flow over the mountains of my mind, and slip through my fingers like the sand on that Invermere beach.

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