Once the key is turned, like the sea, memories all come flooding back: words, smells, sounds and mind videos in color both sharp and grainy, sometimes flat as a snapshot, sometimes in glorious 3D. Memories so sharp you can get lost in them, memories you can study and see detail that escaped you first time round.
I do not know where the memories are kept. They are not in my head for i have searched every room and dug out every canal and broken down every door up there till there in nothing but sunlight. They are not written in books, nor recorded on tape or stuck to the back of some elder's head. It is a mystery.
Some of the ancients tried to explain it. I read, in one of the old chronicles, that you can go back in time to a particular moment - but you must first build an anchor and throw it into the river of time, so you can pull yourself back. But i cannot remember doing that, i cannot remember saying i must remember this. There are places I do not want to come back to: holding the hand of a dying child I tried to rescue in the mountains, digging into an embankment as a fire rolled over us, falling from my horse, leaving a home for the last time. These anchorless wastelands call me back as often as those green lands full of esctasy and pure happiness: standing on the edge of Kanangra Walls and touching feeling the infinite wash through me.
We dabble in the great mysteries, yet do not understanding this, the smallest and most insubstantial of things: where do memories live.