Gone With the Memories

A dusty maroon-colored photo album
Manages to tumble its way off of a
Oak-finished shelf

Tumbling down into the tiny hands
That are merely eight years of age
The fingers of the hands,
Grasping around all four corners and edges

Sunlight blazes into the room, illuminating
Each and every dust speck, and temporarily
Blinding the eyes of a child, who does not
Have the sense to turn away from the
Streaming light

The young hands unwrap themselves
From the book of memories
Lets the album continue its original tumble

Down
Down
Plop

Three pictures manage to escape from
The old plastic envelopes that once surrounded them
Three pictures is all it took

For a child
(Eight years old)
To gasp and realize an unknown fact
That she was never told of

The front of the album reads:
“Confidential – Eliza S.: 1990 - 1997”

Flashback to two days ago in the car -
“Mama, I’m gonna name my dollie Eliza,
cause it’s my favoritest name.”

“It’s one of my favorites too.”

And then mama wipes a tear, and the moment
Passes. Gone, gone with every other moment
Not captured by a camera. It is not placed carefully
Into a dusty maroon photo album.

It is gone.
Perhaps for the better; Perhaps because no one would notice
Or perhaps because even if it did exist
It would not have made a difference





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback