It's Tuesday, April 21st, and it's snowing. It's the kind of snow that you can hear as it pings against the window while it lands with an icy stubbornness, failing to realize that its time has already come and gone.

It feels symbolic, somehow, as I sit here poking and prodding at memories, churning up the dark places within — while outside, spring is supposed to be showering us with promises of renewal and rebirth.

Why do you suppose there are some memories that echo in our minds repeatedly, seemingly with us for our whole lives, while others are so difficult to retrace? Often times, the ones that plant themselves like perennials appear to be fairly innocent, yet I wonder if there isn't some deeper root to them, which is why they keep appearing, until we have learned our lesson from them and are able to let them go...