I rap them up into a bundle, and slip them under my arm; stepping out of my chair, I stand and I walk. I walk through the memories of life, the first time a story came to mind, then the imagination of a six year old child. I walk through the games I played by the equator, sword fights and dresses that brush against the dirt. I walk past a young girl sitting at a computer, typing furiously. I walk past and early morning’s writing interrupted by the pale face of my mother… until I find it. Deep inside my memories, the image of a cross, just after the stories have stopped. I set the bundles down, the stories of people who have never existed, the giggles of island stranded teenagers, the tears of a motherless daughter, and I fall to my knees. “Have you asked for these?” They have not come often or easily for three years now. Ideas once idled in my mind now flee to the touch, and I must give them up.
“If you have decided to take these, then here they are. The truth is I’ve lost my love for them anyway. They themselves are but a memory and the memory is not mine to hold.”
And Jesus picks up the broken mess and hands it back, “where is your pen?” is all He asks.