Half Remembered

May 9 2020

A simple thing, like hanging a picture.

One to hold the frame

adjust the tilt,

and one standing at a distance

making sure it's straight.

Second guessing, as usual,

hands on hips, head cocked

an eye thoughtfully narrowed.

Just as a poem isn't finished

until it's read.

Like radio,

transmitting ever diminishing waves

out into time forever

and out to the end of space.

Because what meaning is there to a message

that is sent, but never received?

And how memories

that can no longer be shared

are half remembered, at best.

Because we are repositories

of each other's past;

keeping track

as if running a relay,

lifelong team-mates

passing the baton

lightly back and forth.

As unreliable as memory is.

As necessary

to who we are.

And when the picture needs to be higher,

one supervising

while the other hammers the nail.