Memory Is Kind Poem by John Yaws

There's a phase of my life, that is now gone forever.
As I reminisce, I find that it's strange…
That memories of hardship and long hours labor-
No longer intrude on my home on the range.

I was a cowboy, and some say a good one.
I guess I was taught not to toot my own horn.
I could ride; I could rope, and second guess cattle-
And loved the outdoors since the day I was born.

I worked in the Rockies, and in Arizona…
My one goal in life was to be a top hand.
If I took a man's money, I watched for his interests,
The code of the West is "you ride for the brand".

From sunrise to sunset, and often by moonlight,
I worked, froze and sweated while plying my trade.
Long hours of boredom, interrupted by danger-
Are the mortar and bricks of which memories are made.

With those days behind me (and maybe its better) ,
I still like to gather with cowboy pards…
We laugh and we joke as we dredge up old memories,
Of horses, and bosses, and life that was hard.

We laugh as we talk of old friends who've crossed over,
Of broncs that we've loved, and some that we don't.
Of partners and women who'd sure stand beside you-
And the opposite ones who most certainly won't.

Our stories are true, or we certainly hope so…
But I sometimes wonder as I look behind…
Why life's so much fun, viewed in retrospection?
Or could it just be that memory is kind?