I visited Mom a few days ago... paying her back for a favor, but while I was there I got her to open up the old cedar chest for me again.
Since I had recently spent a lot of time on my kids shields and swords I had an urge to look at mine again. After all these years they still rest safely in her chest, sealed away should I have need of them again.
Looking at them I was a little surprised. The shield was just as I remembered it, but the sword was subtly different than my memories. The handle was longer, the quillons formed differently. All in all it was essentially the same, but subtly different than my memory.
I guess it just goes to show that time makes us strangers to even our own pasts. Even the stories of our own lives do not remain untouched. They shift.. ever so slightly... like colors under the sun. Dim in the first light of dawn, brighter in the morning, washed out with burning light at miday.... bright and true in the afternoon, and then dimming in the twilight hours of evening, finally leeched of all color under the light of moon and stars.
Just as our own stories burn and then fade away.
Just as we do.
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