through the mist
memories
stand heavy as horses
weight tilted
through muscle and bone
patiently waiting
memories
Thinking back
One minute your key was in the lock; the next it wasn’t.
One day the sun came out to play; the next it didn’t.
One year you said I was the only one; the next I wasn’t.
Every morning of every summer they meet
Every morning of every summer they meet. Same beach, same time. “So, we’re all here, are we? Nobody’s died in the night?” And with that Luigi and the others smile and stand thigh-deep in the water and frown at clumsy splashing swimmers. Sometimes the women begin to sing.
Stories
I have become the stories that my parents told each other, nervous, excited, looking at the sky.
I am the stories that friends have woven and imagined, each new beginning another tale.
One day, one day, I will be the stories that my children more or less remember or in their own ages tell their own.
I was, will be, and am those stories.
Madeleine remembers
Madeleine licked, crunched, swallowed an iced birthday biscuit. And another. Father had said no cake so she sat alone and ate birthday biscuits. The sweet licking, the soft crunching, the gritty swallowing, she loved it, over, over and over. Until later. Then no more iced biscuits for ever. She remembers.
