In the moment there is little we see
Our nearly closed eyes capture the stark white room,
We cry and scream.
There are strange noises, voices.
And the day is forgotten.
It’s one of the flaws of humanity:
We cannot remember everything.
But now that we are older,
We learn to bury our memories in a chest.
Because what the mind seems to forget
The heart remembers,
Knitting imagines together
Mending heartstrings with heartstrings
The end of every moment we seal away as a memory,
Til we acquire an album of snapshots to tell our story.