Fragments From Floyd

How like memory it became, weaving together the images that made up the collage I gave Ann for her birthday last week.

One image lies large or small, bright or faded, sharply or faintly distinguishable from its neighbors. Some from nearby. Some barely remembered until the features appear.

And the instant these shapes become visible, they move to the background and others come to take their places. And again and again the page of memory is filled with color and form, a dynamic canvas of remembrances.

But I could only give her one, frozen in time. There could be so many. So many.