Pistachios

She always had possessed a certain place in his heart—not always a happy one, but one which was certainly hers, a sure and abiding portion. That was how he thought of her as the endless traffic streamed headlight-golden before him on a warm grey evening.

Purple came now, and dinner's last faint tang was swallowed and gone. He looked at the dim dial of his antique silver pocket-watch and began the long walk. It was his only hope of the moment that he might somehow encounter her once more before he left.

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What odd things one writes when one is young! And stranger still, that some things become heavier and more meaningful when one knows one did not mean it then, but has come to appreciate it now.

Then there is embarrassment and the urge to rewrite, edit, delete or obliterate. But if one did that with everything one wrote, would one then be lessened by it? It is bad enough that natural processes destroy the templates and emplates of memory daily.

And so, one keeps these somewhat quaint vignettes, bits of memory like the odd crumbs of pistachio that can be found in a block of nougat.