Memories.

Being ten and walking back from the pool with the cracked concrete chipping away into the water. Surrounded by a chain link fence leaning and curling. Eating a bologna sandwich on the porch in the heat looking at the tall grass and the dandelion wisps waiting for a wind. Picking at the paint peeling from the porch.

Dreams.

Wanting to be a famous painter someday, and live in New York in a tall building in a room the size of a warehouse. You could roller skate in there. You can see painting pictures taller than a tree. Such big dreams in vivid color turning to grey under the weight of the people holding you down.

Hope.

The ones you know who don't just kill themselves or each other, kill themselves with their vices. The rest go to prison or wind up in a dirty nicotine stained shack waiting out the inevitable. You know there's more to life, you actually get the hell out kid.

Saturday.

Taking the kids to the park, watching them run in circles and laugh, pushing them on swings that aren't broken. Watching a movie later in the day curled up on the couch with those little miracles, having a popcorn fight. Washing your car on Sunday, baking a lasagna. Getting the school and the work clothes washed for the bright and early morning around the corner.

Minding the gap.

You made it, right? But the space between the life you dreamed and the life you're living is wide. You have to remember the ten year old who thought anything was possible, who was living in big dreams. Remember to live. There's always more life you can fit into this trip. Make memories to take with you to the grave.