Marrakesh: and a tale of remembering, really remembering

I spend a lot of time wondering if I'll remember a certain touch, or a certain taste, or a certain smell.  Wondering if I can hold onto what it felt like when I ripped open the envelope and read that I had gotten in.  Or how my heart leapt when the doctor said that it was a boy.  Or the way the pen trembled when I signed on that dotted line.  Or that sound, oh, that sound of her laughing for the very first time.   

I wish that there was a way that I could capture certain moments and ingrain them in my memory, so they could never become just a faint echo, just a dry rustle, just a wan imprint of what they were. That there was a way that I could collect them all, each a shiny star, and save them in a silken pouch.  And that every night, I could spill them out right before me, touch each one and remember what it felt like, really, that time he brushed the hair out of my eyes and asked me, would I, please.... be his.  

Stars 1

Stars 2