"Memory has its own story to tell".
I found this quote by Tobias Wolff tucked away in the pages of notes I took while at the literature festival. As I rediscovered this quote my own memories began to inspire me. They began to weave together into their own story.

I began to recall those times as a child that required bravery.



I was being brave.
That mournful, shadowy, oppressive day.
I was being brave
as I said goodbye.
I watched the never ending
parade of strangers
shuffle through the building.
I was being brave
as I was whisked away.
He was gone forever.

I was being brave
the afternoon I told them
my secret.
I was being brave
the evening every detail
spilled from my lips.
I told them,
I was being brave
those long and terrifying nights.

I was being brave
the day I saw her.
The old smell of
the hospital was overwhelming.
The heavy sadness suspended in the air.
I was being brave
as I watched her chest
rise and fall
at the will of the machines.
I was being brave as I
brushed her slat and pepper hair
from her cold forehead.

I was being brave.
Yes, brave that warm summer day.
I held him as he fell apart.
I was being brave as I whispered in his ear
"I love you, we'll figure this out".
I was being brave
as I silently watched him pack his truck,
back out of the driveway,
and out of my life.

-Hannah Travis