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That prickling, the titillating rush of a past thrill and joy, the trickle of memory, the reaching for more, the capture of what was once at the time so exhilarating, but now a single needle of hope that it might last longer, and the faint hope that it might somehow return. Why must it always fade, the spike of the past that never lasts? The grey shadow and hint of time, the joy so loud yet dwindling faint, of youth so dare and proud, and now so far and never loud. As many get older, some will have memories that fade, as in the case of the author. He hurries to record joyful memories, while he still can, so they can be read by him, or to him in later years. The author is creating a pre-emptive strike, against what he knows is a deteriorating memory. The free verse musings of this work trigger the memory of the writer. Happy times and good years are remembered through pen to paper. With humor and wit through seasonal timeframes, the writer rapidly launches forward exhibiting the wonderful and exciting world of the child some sixty years ago.

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