Your Marks On Me

The music plays on my drive home and I find comfort in sorting thru my memories. The words of the song stir up in my mind bits of fragmented pictures, like a huge eyeball painted on the length of a building, or the tiny black ant’s that crept onto me whenever I tried to climb the orange tree. If I can stay with it long enough the pictures becomes a silent movie. I feel odd sensations as old synapses bear the weight of my searching memory. I see them here, anyone who left their mark on me. And how true all that really is when you think about it. If we give someone a thought, a stranger, a lover, we are likely to receive them as a memory. Give. Receive. As fellow humans we have the magnitude to encode ourselves into the very structure of another’s mind. Maybe this is the eternity that God intended for us, living on in the minds of the people we encounter, becoming part of tissue and bone, seeping into the DNA of the ones we once knew. And one day being reborn as that eccentric romantic trait in a young girl, or that over eagerness in a young boy to express himself with his fists.