The Self-Made Woman
That day twenty years past had seemed at the time to go on forever. She remembered. She had opened her heart to each moment, letting the summer light and the sea fragrance fill her; she had looked and looked at the world until her eyes hurt. And even when she closed her eyes, the speckled darkness was so beautiful, it too felt like a blessing. Afterwards, when everyone had gone home, even the moon, leaving only stars like speckles in the dreaming eye of God, she wrote down as much of the day as she could. Words did not come easily to her, but that barely mattered for she knew she would always remember that day and all the happiness of it.
But memory is not stitched on the brain. It is speckles in the dark, flaring and then melting into ghosts of long ago light. Over twenty years, she recalled that day in little bits, some of them misattached to other days; she knew the words for how she felt, but no longer held the actual feeling.
And yet, it was not lost, not one moment, not one ribbon of laughter. For each experience had contributed to the marrow in her, the rhythm of her pulse, the way she held her mouth, the timbre of her voice. She did not remember that day so much as she was that day, along with all the other days of her life.
She grew herself every moment.
And she knew it. Which was why she was always so determined to embrace the light, the sea, the salt-tanged breeze of any given day, of every blessed moment. She wanted to be made of joy and peace. She lived her life to be it.