I have always thought that one of our goals as parents is to fill our children's memory bank with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of pleasant scenes. Dr. Sears
"It's a blind," her father said. "What's a blind?" Alessandro asked. "Memory of things like days at the sea, or thunderstorms." "I love those things," Alessandro said. "You can't imagine how much I love them." "Alessandro, in memory, things, objects, and sensations merely stand in for the people you love." He had to rest and breathe before he continued. After awhile, he said, "If I long for a thunderstorm in Rome sixty years ago, or seventy, for the heavy rain and the disheveled lightning, for the wet trees that were completely free and abandoned, it's not because of the rain, or the quiet, or the ticking of the clock in in the hall way - all of which I remember - but because of my mother and my father, who held me at the window as we watched the storm."
Deeper than sleep but not so deep as death I lay there sleeping and my magic head remembered and forgot. On first cry I remembered and forgot and did believe. I knew love and I knew evil: woke to the burning song and the tree burning blind, despair of our days and the calm milk-giver who knows sleep, knows growth, the sex of fire and grass, and the black snake with gold bones.
Black sleeps, gold burns; on second cry I woke fully and gave to feed and fed on feeding. Gold seed, green pain, my wizards in the earth walked through the house, black in the morning dark. Shadows grew in my veins, my bright belief, my head of dreams deeper than night and sleep. Voices of all birth arise, simple as we, found in the leaves, in clouds and dark, in dream, deep as this hour, ready again to sleep.