A quarter of a century

In a matter of days I will be a quarter of a century old.  Where does time go?   It seems like yesterday, I was small enough to crawl into my dad's lap. I would feel his strong arms around me as he'd read to me stories of princesses and fairy-tales that were tailor made. I miss those moments as a kid, when I would teleport from being asleep on Grandma's couch, to magically waking up in a warm car, seatbelt fastened. Those moments I wish could be bottle up, so I could hold them in my hand.  But they slip through our fingers without knowing their current or compounding value.  Often we don't see the worth in one day, and in fact wish time away. We seem to collect time like pennies in a jar.   Each day a new memory, and another copper coin is collected in the container of time.    Those memories sit there until they pile on top of each other and make the older ones harder and harder to see.  The thing with these memories is that they can be fleeting at times.   When you need them the most, it seems they vacate.   At least mine do.  Momentary fog fills my memory bank and I can't seem to recall what it was I swore I wouldn't forget.   Be it lessons learned through hindsight, or watershed moments, those pennies put in the jar that outline who we are, and how we got here.