Memory cut you a trailer

A song comes on in a store and you're gone. Back on some porch with a friend who made everything funny, in an easier stretch of life. And there's the cigarette, right in the middle of the shot, like it was the best part. Memory just cut you a trailer.

Trailers keep the best two minutes and drop the rest. You don't miss the cigarette. You miss that season and those people. The cigarette was only standing in the room while the good stuff happened. Now it's claiming it threw the party.

Play the rest of the film before you judge it. The late runs to the store. The money. The itch that cut into a good conversation. The one you reached for without even wanting it. Trust your records, not your edits. The porch and the laughing stay yours. God is only cutting the scenes that were stealing from you.

Plan one evening you'd happily watch in full later. Good food, good people, a story you'll retell for a long time. Nothing to trim out. Nothing to hide from the morning. This one gets the director's cut.