A memory in every fabric.

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As I grow in age I accumulate memories. Memories, memories which I love. Memories which put me to sleep in an alien new city. Memory which helps me have a meal by virtue of it being the same dish which my mother would cook every Sunday how so ever bad it may be. Memory, that pull my feet towards this small mosque every Sunday simply because the sermon here reminds me of my Friday prayers with my dad as a kid. Memory, makes me smile at that little who begs at the corner of the road, she clips her hair exactly like my sister did when she was little. Memory facilitates my day, he navigates my path, she determines by path, they determine the meal of my day. Memory is who I am and who I am is a memory