I can remember the color of the clothing wore on an English summer’s day,
The shade of the trees, the air full in the excitement of the new,
Walking in a country park, worthy of a Bronte novel.
The painting like a John Constable; with life inserted.
Such is recall, not to be confused with recollection,
Or evening remembering.
Remembering is tinged with the scent of regret, or a repainting of what recall tells us.
Recall is true reliving of the experience, but now, somehow, with understanding. Unhampered by time.
It is understanding of what each moment means, and how it has affected others, including me.