A week ago I stood in the shadows of my yesteryear
Before me stood a Pavillion we spent hours underneath
With Bozo the Clown, overnight campouts, rollerskating,
Ports from the storms we loved.
It made me pause with a thought,
Those yesteryears were perfect
But they included pain, tears and dark nights
If true, where does perfection come?
We paint broad stokes of history
With memories of good, bad, or indifference.
Maybe the general impressions is important
Lump in the bad, flood it with good, I’m fine.
That’s the shadow of life
No matter how imperfect
I paint the memories with a brush of good
And then I can feel satisfied.
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