In and Of Itself - Feb 18 2024

 

In And Of Itself

Feb 18 2024

I'm amazed by her memory.

Photographic.

Archival.

Infallible.

Like an attic

cluttered with ephemera

tchotchkes

and the countless boxes of stuff

hauled along with every move.

Conscientiously.

Just because.

My memories

are more snapshots than video,

more back-of-the-envelope

than encyclopedic.

Moments worth remembering.

Photos

torn, faded, folded.

Incidents

recalled poorly, or not at all.

And images, like composites,

conflated

or even made-up;

because the literal truth means less

than what it meant

and how it felt.

The date of his death, for example.

Which is there, on his headstone, if you ever cared to look.

And anyway, what use is a number

in and of itself?

And sometimes, it's better to forget.

Imagine, being unable to;

memories, both good and bad

intruding unbidden

like that ringing in your ear

you just can't shake.

My attic

is dark, dusty, spider-webbed.

The floor creaks badly,

the ceiling

is too low to stand.

But I've learned to bring a flashlight

watch my head.

And when I do need to know

she's always there to ask.