Scrapbook

Go ahead, I said to myself. Pull over and take a picture of yourself in your old convertible with the top down on November 5th. Never mind what passers-by think. The truck driver backing into a driveway, the long-haired man walking his Dalmatian, their opinions don’t matter. They don’t know the truth or what is to be captured in the photo.

Self, I said, just pull over. You want to remember this blue sky and these trees? The leaves floating down like little brown birds? The way your old car takes the turns? The sun on your face one last day before winter sets in?

Don’t trust your mind’s eye, I tell myself. It won’t remember this bluest blue and how happy it made you.  And it deserves remembering.