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Array
(
[sid] => 42345
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => My Scrapbook
[time] => 2004-04-08 15:32:22
[hometext] => Scrapbooks are places for memories, I keep my memories tucked deep inside.
[bodytext] => The scrapbook of my life isn't shown on pretty pages, it is in the bits of memory I've experienced through the ages. The pictures in my mind are of many shapes and hues, gathered from the time of baby booties and fancy high-heeled shoes. I remember sibblings and the many things went wrong, but this scrapbook comes alive, with our laughter and silly songs. Here in the quietness...these moments all alone at last, my mind wanders and struggles to remember, only the happiness from my past. There were brown plowed fields on which my bare feet walked, the many hours my imaginary friend and I often held hands and talked. Somehow the air seemed fresher, the sun shone not quiet so hot. These are the things I'm now remembering, visions not easily forgot. Many pets shared my world, domestic and some wild, their love was unconditional, given freely like a child. My walks on many nature trails, there were always streams I would find, to sit beside and marvel at...when life became to unkind. I delighted in nature's seasons, but mainly it was early spring, I enjoyed when life was again renewed, bursting forth in everything. With the rebirth in nature, new hope would swell my heart, a new canvas to be painted, a new scrapbook I could start. Now in my later years, as a wife and mother I became, this is where my importance is, many years I've played this game. I could have done better, perhaps I was not suited for this role, but the scrapbook shows to me...I at least achieved that goal. Sitting at my window as I write, I notice the sky is yet a pretty blue, the sun still sets in the west, without help from me or you. My scrapbook, although it has a cover...refuses to tightly close, for the color of life continues, even though it's a life I may not have chose. There are memories I have yet to make and willingly want to share, people I must find a place for, and let them know I care. My memory is my scrapbook, though not all love and knitted lace, it rests on my hearts shelf...indeed, a very special place. Author: June E. Miller (Justalady) 2/17/2002 [comments] => 4 [counter] => 199 [topic] => 21 [informant] => Justalady [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems )
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