Saturday, July 18, 2009


I always say
I wished I remembered more
Each day
I wish I had more to hold onto
But memories come back

Small hands playing with blocks.

Climbing on the counter to get out of reach of the neighbor's dog.

Watching my neighbors, marveling that one looked like a guy on my favorite TV show.

Eating grass, making a soup out of fresh clippings.

Swinging on the swing in my backyard, letting my hair trail in the dirt as I leaned into the motion.

The red car my parents used to own, parked on the blacktop.

Looking out our kitchen window, waiting for the leaves to turn and my birthday to come.

I remember the two large fans that would be propped up in my bedroom windows on hot summer nights.

Brushing my teeth with sparkling toothpaste, because that kinda stuff was new and fun when I was younger.

I remember being afraid of locked doors, being forgotten, and the neighbor's pee happy dog.

Faded, slowly forgetting.

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