Memory Lane

They most likely have all died of natural causes, old age, maybe cancer. No one gets murdered in this little town. The trees and benches have all been memorialized. People within the community purchase one with a wooden post and plaques displaying “in memory of” and who purchased it. Some are new, the wood post freshly cut and slightly green on the ends, others are splintered like the lives of family members they left behind. The park by my house that I run and bike is full of them. All different, some evergreens, some blossoming varieties.

Sweet Bay Magnolia

Sawtooth Oak

Service Berry

October Glory Maple

Sweet Gum

Purple Leaf Plum

Kwanzan Cherry

Pink Dogwood

Red Sunset Maple

I try to get here at least three times a week. Try. Too much rain though, record rain this year.

Some are visited more than others, adorned with additional flowers at the base, or lawn ornaments. A tiny stone bunny sits at the base of a tree that I checked twice for movement. Some look broken, a second death, one to the person and the other to their memory. I slow down my bike ride and catch some of the names as I ride by. In the case of a particularly beautiful tree, I stop completely. Mostly because I’m nosey.

This section of my ride feels different, all the trees line up just so. I call it Memory Lane. The other trees and benches throughout the park are partnered by something more vibrant; tennis courts, basketball games, soccer goals. Not here. Just a lane and trees straight as a soldiers salute.

The feeling I get around the rest of the park is joyous, I get a glance at someones life, and who keeps their legacy. I stop to read the plaque of trees that I find particularly pretty, or old. There’s always the thud of a basketball or volleyball not too far in the distance, children laughing from the playground.

Memory lane feels like they are glancing into me, prying. Something about it makes me uncomfortable. Maybe its too quiet. I need the noise to distract me from my own memories.


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We read to learn, to feel, to laugh, to understand others. We write to teach, express, communicate, to inspire others. I created Invisible Ink as an outlet of sorts, an area where I can organize the chaos; a place where hopefully I can be true to myself, and my readers. Writing is personal, it takes a brave and dedicated soul to formulate a piece and then share it with the world. That being said, I get just as much out of reading other's work as I do sharing mine ( I am always open to manuscript review swaps, just send me a message). Words read off a page evoke emotions. When taken out of context, or through an out of focus lens - anyone can mold the words, shifting their meaning to fit their agenda or distorted outlook. Staying true to form and myself, I won't censor my content, but I will censor my audience. Whatever lens you happen to be reading this through - I hope you enjoy!

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