in things ordinary, how it arises like a dust storm
as you unravel the past, packing up for yet another move.
An old sequined dress in the back of the closet
promised much more than it delivered.
Yet you kept it anyway. For no real reason.
At least it still fits, so much for small victories.
And remember your grandmother’s old fur coat,
someone said pony hair so you never wore it again.
You heard the hooves following you in dreams.
Then there’s curious sensation when memory
coalesces like blood as you relive a day in the life of…
The unanswerable: why did that particular moment arise?
And where did all that sequestered time go anyway?
Especially those moments when you weren’t paying
attention and forgot about the grind of dailiness.
The box of broken earrings stashed under the bed
is whispering again of the not-so-good good old days.
You know, those inconsequential moments,
surfacing like a gateway drug in need of a fix.
None of it is real. Curious how we define ourselves
with detritus of the past. So much treasured junk.
You’d think by now, we’d know better.
Memory is a standup comedian:
part paper, part animal, part rock
as you snip snip snip away at the past,
trimming the split ends with dull nail scissors,
the hinge protesting the conversion
with a song of rust and regret.
I want to say to my younger self, regret not the past
because it is all but a trick of memory.
Think of it as a jigsaw puzzle made of clouds
with pieces missing.
7/19/23 Write On! with Susie Terence
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