I hope my memories remember me too. At least before they leave me. Abrupt. Without cause. They die with the leaves and fall to the earth so that they can be buried in winter’s shadow. My memories are planted in me. They’re like a flower that blooms, but I can’t touch it. I beg to hold it. Smell it. Plant it in my garden forever. Put it in my hair to match the sundress I once wore on your birthday. I’m strangled by the roots of these flowers. And I think back and wonder how thorns can harm you, yet still be a part of something so gracious. Then I remember how the transitions in seasons must feel so lonely and I feel at home for the first time in a long time. Think back to how I met my roots. Feel them pump the blood from my heart to my brain. Give me life. Living simultaneously in the most beautiful and chaotic parts of my mind. Say my prayers before my memories bloom into dreams. Let the garden nourish me in thoughts from the past. I hope my memories remember me too. -AMT