I'll Trade You a Memory

I'll trade you a memory.

I'm stood on the train platform. The sun is setting; I'm just in the shade, but rays of light shine down through the slats of the bridge above. Gold, yellows. It's cool enough for the air to be pale, but there's the slightest heat haze above the tracks and the light is warm. I have a baby bonsai tree cutting, in a glass jar, in my hands. He's named after a book character and in the sunlight his tiny leaves glow. There are many metaphors for the potential in a young plant, but all he does is live in the moment, and try to grow in the sunset light.

And illuminated in the yellow-gold rays of sun are... I don't remember what they're called. Seeds, maybe, attached to tiny white floatation devices. A practical and unromantic description. When I was young we called them faeries.
There must be thousands of them, floating slowly over the tracks, suspended in the warm still air and glowing in the sunlight. Everyone on the platform is quiet. Pigeons coo, and a billow of dust heralds the approaching train.

I can't get the faeries in a photo. I can't make the lens focus on the plant's leaves.
But as I stand there, I realise that I want to remember it. I want to remember this moment, this second.

There are so many moments I want to forget, tiny snapshots in time that I might be better off without, but this one I want to remember.

So I'll trade it. Give me one of your bad memories. Something you want to forget. A moment to be erased. Close your eyes and breathe it out.

And breathe in this memory:
You are on a train platform in the glowing setting sun. There is a baby bonsai plant in your hands, and thousands of faeries dance in the golden air.
Excitement buzzes low in your stomach. You are dizzy for a second with peace; the world is suddenly slow.

For one second,

Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut