My grandpa only ever knew me as a little boy. I only knew him as an old man. But every day I work on his land, I stand under his trees, hold his soil in my hand and watch it drift away in the breeze, he knows. He sees.
I’m no longer a little boy.
The old man is buried beside a church in town.
But when we pick up antiques and put them to work, when we give our backs to what we’ll never get back, we can no longer call it memory.
Eternal life might be secondary to eternal use.
That’s why I prefer stories to memories.
Anytime I get to choose.