The Grass of Weeping Waters

The grass of weeping waters.  It’s a meadow dark with shadows.  A place of many tears.

I’ve been here a thousand times, for herein lies my memories.
I’ve buried every one.

And I stand with the other mourners like specters in the mist.

For memories are pain, anguish and despair.  They are disappointment and failure and guilt we can’t admit.  So we hide them in the ground beneath the dirt. 

We forget.

But with that pain is buried all those moments of hope and joy.  

They’re intermingled.  And I’ve lost them. 

I’ve forgotten the pain.  I’ve forgotten who I am.