Hallmark

There is a section of the BQE in New York that looks like a highway leading into Los Angeles. It's the ivy on the rock walls that flank both sides of the road. There's a certain slant of light in this upper Midwest town that stretches over scattered pine cones and leaves that reminds me of a patch of woods back home in Oklahoma, where I grew up. And then there is the scent of pinion and sage that delivers me whole and complete to the Arizona desert, windows down and driving by silhouettes of cacti so tall I confuse them with telephone poles. It seems that wherever I am now I can't escape the places I've been before. The impressions are sustained and I am in a state of constantly relating "this" to "that" and "that" to "this." Memories of places are okay, more bearable than some memories. For instance, places can't hurt you like people can and do. Maybe that isn't entirely true... I don't really know, which makes me sort of lucky I guess. Today I took a short break and went for a walk. I was wandering, just walking and enjoying the fresh air when I found myself at the Hallmark store. Sometimes I like to read greeting cards (not buy just browse) because... well it's just something I do. It seems most if not all Sympathy cards have the word "memory" in them and "memory" is supposed to be "comforting." Well ok, if you say so. But I have to say Hallmark, unless you're referring to something like the memory I have of running through brambles in North Carolina and breathing in the pure mountain air as the sun pours light on everything like ribbons of melting gold... then I'm having a little trouble believing you.

hall⋅mark  /ˈhɔlˌmɑrk/[hawl-mahrk]
–verb (used with object) 4. to stamp or imprint (something) with a hallmark.