A poem to a former love. |
ah but oh my darling what if it were possible to tell the story differently and remember only the most precious parts maybe we should keep close the moment under the willows and let the traffic noise slip away i saw a man - a doctor, i think - talking about memory and the falibility of our minds and, if memory serves, his conclusion was: we remember what we remember that is, we remember what we practice remembering and the rest is slowly lost unless a trigger outside of us sparks that old wisp of a thought and we rework it again if that is true then we can forget that whole mess with the can of soup and the olive juice i want to remember that one perfect shower instead the feeling of your cold fingers and the hot water our foreheads pushed together a cool breeze when the cat eased the door open the clean smell of laundry and the home smell of casserole they came upon us silently that afternoon and all was well maybe i could forget the thistle stings of childhood and instead capture the warm sunlight on my back and the smell of my favorite books the ache of my muscles as I leaned on my elbows and stomach reading beautiful stories what if we told the story again with only the sweet honey moments would that be fooling ourselves? would you mind? |