Watercolor Memories

Want to sit in sun. Want to wear dresses. Want to go to the beach. Want to write. Want to read. Want to drink red wine. Want to go swimming. Want to lie naked in the grass.

Want to be 4 years old again with the blonde kitchen table destroyed slowly by my mother’s and my craft projects, sun streaming in, all I see are blonde, sunny, pastel blurs but I know it’s my first memory. Not even sure I was 4. I know there were many days like that and maybe they’ve all run together in my mind like too wet watercolors.

I want runny summer days like egg yoke. I want slow tortoise nights, big and round and pensive. I want to be close with myself again. Shut out the voices and the noises, the vices and the niceties.

A long hum from far away, deep like the lowest note on a stand up bass. I can hear it, but it feels stronger resonating through me. It is louder inside my body. I don’t know but it grumbles the ground.

I want out of the city. Off the side walks, out of the buildings, away from the freeways, out from under the skyline.

Remember the stars? I can’t remember the stars? In the emerald city, and I’ve never seen so much grey.

Remember the watercolor memories. Everything is a watercolor memory.