Radio Flyer

Remnants at best memories are,

lodged or dislodged by strange forces

that come out of nowhere.

We try so hard to remember some,

equally hard to forget others.

They’re all there,

even if we think some are lost forever.

I’ll never forget my first kiss

and the panic in my heart.

My first wagon, a Radio Flyer,

in which I traveled the Universe.

My first bike, a Schwinn.

My first rifle, a .22, at eleven years old.

My marriage to a beautiful woman

and the bewildering beauty 

of the births of our children.

Mountains are grafted where valleys lay;

It was winter…or was that early summer?

Things were shiny? Or big? Or small?

Did they ever exist at all?

The faces, the places, 

the joys, the broken hearts.

Memories are strewn in our heads 

as if by five-year-olds 

who played with them all day.

Sorting is futile at any age.

We cling to our vague certainties 

of who did what and when.

They were like jewels in the fog,

but we fill the gaps with what seems possible

and change them if something seems better.

Even siblings, under the same roof, 

witnessing the same things,

rarely agree on what happened.

However messy it is, we still say, 

Oh yes, I remember that…

And for a minute, utterly convinced.

From: A Preface To The Universe:

Women, Getting Older, and

Other Mysteries

Unpub. MS p. 27