Everything is magnified looking back.
Twice-told, it happened once
and then I pick among remains.
The memory of life
is a deep current within us.
It remains aloof and hidden,
once passed on,
so now when I remember,
I see only drama,
dreams being told,
artifacts that lie at the water’s edge.
The past comes up to my toes
and I feel the coldness of its sleep,
the shivering of its blankets,
the night outside the door,
the day that passes through the cracks
of windows and rafters.
To know our story,
we must see how our hands move,
our eyes wander,
observe the paths
we are inclined to take,
what fills the spaces in our heart
when nothing moves.
Then it comes back,
a little at a time,
people that loved us,
whom we feared,
hiding places,
and things we found buried
in the stones and grass.
To remember,
once we were children,
and saw rain fall,
the sun come out,
night whisper its thoughts to us,
a world more real
than any we would ever know again.