Memory

Weather-beaten billboards on the side of the road 

Places I might have travelled 

People I may have met 

Poke into my consciousness like a needle on an old record player

Scratchy, tearfully nostalgic.

My mind is flipping through old photographs 

Searching for details I might have missed.

What are the memories I haven’t remembered?

We have a deck of cards—we shuffle them—up and down—back and forth—folding the edges

Then we lay them down.

They are the memories we know well, the well-worn deck of First Communions and birthdays, holidays, Christmas morning—

hair still in curlers, flannel pyjamas, washed and rewashed so many times that the bunnies or angels have blurred.

Piles of wrapping paper, a crowded living room, the boys shoving, always a little one under foot.

My dad anxious on the edge of frame—a green garbage bag ready, his leg jiggling up and down.

He can’t wait to stuff the red and green and silver paper into the garbage bag.

Soon he’ll be vacuuming—any bits of glitter or ribbon —sucked up and away. 

Any traces of celebration or beauty or surprise—sucked away in the blare of the Electrolux.

The tree manages to stay standing. 

We sit on the couch, clutching our small gifts and raise our feet so that we too don’t get sucked into the dust bag—obliterated from memory —faded from the celluloid images in the photo album.

Maybe he regrets he made us—-his messy tribe.

The roar of a machine is all that remains of Peace on Earth and O Come all Ye Faithful.

Where are the memories we don’t remember?

Forced into a dust bag with all the dog hair and shedded skin and lost dreams?

Sometimes when snow falls lightly and street lights sparkle briefly—for this kind of snow doesn’t last—it kisses the earth for just a second—its cold pointed star-shape brief and sweet.

Sometimes in those beats, I sense a different life—-the one on the back pages—the one on the other side of the mirror—where love shines in through the kitchen window and fresh socks are laid on the bed and a kiss placed on my forehead.

But it melts into the sidewalk and soon disappears before anything can be captured. I used to look into the puddles on the road—the ones swirling with oil from passing cars—pink and purple and green swirls, like memories. 

A street cleaning machine will sweep it up—large brushes whirling—until a new surface is all that remains.

Written on December 17, 2020