scavengers of life

I breathe deep into this thing called life.

I let the thing waft through my lungs, let it seep into my heart, sticking like honey, all gooey and messy and beautiful.

I try, with all of my might and strength and will power, to open up these clenched fists. Try to let the fingers open and the palms raise upward, heaven bound.

I reach out, grasping for the gifts of this life like I am catching fireflies. I want to capture a dozen of them and put them in that big Mason Jar of Memories. I want to keep them as pets, naming each one.

I want to let them go inside my heart, let them flutter around inside my five foot seven frame, bringing me warmth when I need comforting and strength when I need something richer than liquid courage.

I am a traveler. A scavenger. A collector of memories and experiences and smiles and laughter and stories and beauty.

And I put each memory of mine inside that big Mason Jar and go back to it when I walk deep into the Wood of Nostaligia.

But I must be vigilant, must be on watch, that I do not get lost inside that great, grand wood and forget to live in the day. Forget to be the explorer and the adventurer and the pioneer.

I must make sure that when the fireflies are tired of the Mason Jar, I let them go, back into this big, beautiful world. Ready to make their own memories and stories.

For though I collect things on this earth now, I will leave them all behind. And I will walk into something greater and grander and far more beautiful.

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