the good is oft interred with the bones . .

the past comes back in whiffs, like summer smoke or that steamy acrid smell of wet pavement after a summer shower on a blazing August afternoon . . . it rises and entices . . . dancing through the corridors of ones memory. But pasts . . . varied . . . unfettered . . . mercurial, if you will . . . . contains all things that combine to make us who we are. Yet if one were to take a single photograph . . . a frozen portrait in time . . . and presume that it defined a life as a whole, the assumption would be diffused and vacant . . . myopic. We must take care how we judge.