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The Price of Age MAG
my bare feet scoot across the
rough floors, shuffling layers of dirt
and grime.
my toe bumps a piece of glass,
pale blue and crooked at the edges.
i bend to pick it up, hoping it is that chunk of
sea glass you bought me.
do you remember?
probably not.
you don’t remember much these days.
no no, it’s not that you don’t remember,
more that you choose to look at
our history through scratched glasses, perched
precariously on a broken nose.
i see you polishing your glasses sometimes,
and i wonder,
why don’t you buff the scratches off, or
just buy a new pair?
but then you put them back over your
ears and stare down at me,
pretending you can’t remember
those painted summer days, etched
to fit the nostalgic memories of
our youth.
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"Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle