Pebbles of My Past

“Memory: a child walking along a seashore. You never can tell what small pebble it will pick up and store away among its treasured things.”–Pierce Harris. 


I definitely had the likeness of a child.
My pockets were full of pebbles, red ones, blues ones, brown ones, and black ones – the memories I kept at hand to retrieve and admire their color and smoothness, which they got from rolling around in the ocean’s waters.
I had a couple of good-sized stones and seashells, too.
Though, the sea glass was always the one that seemed to cut me despite its dull edges.
My mind was the ocean, busy and calm in one.
It could be stormy and angry with gray clouds that threatened to send dreary rains.
It could also be sunny and full of life. Sometimes it was simply vast and empty, reaching depths I did not know I possessed; the abysses that held all my mysteries. The sky was my dreams, reflective of the watery memories below.
The puffy clouds scarred the sky; pink and orange when happy
and the dark clouded nights when there was no moon, nothing to shine on the truth. The ocean held the pebbles of my past, the big and small, the tragedies and comedies. Even the ones that you thought would never stick with you but one day you’d find those pebbles washed up on shore.