Do They Remember?

Does the gravel road remember

the border of pastel yarrow, my footprints and the hollows made by my knees and the heels of my hands, me concentrating on staying awake while ravens oversee, soaring, violet mystique wings outstretched

Does the sky remember

glaring down on the old drunk, in his yellowed Stanfields, lying in a soaking puddle in the backyard morning, sprinkler ran all night and he drowned but didn’t know it

Does the backstop remember

me up on the mound, black socked Juan Marichal leg kick, wild as an air hose when the nozzle breaks off, baseball’s the next perfect thing after the last one blew apart

Does the kitchen floor remember

her pinwheeled on the cornflower tiles, alone and snoring, pajama top only, mustard on her pointed chin, the yellow badge of surrender, but what would I know of it?

Do the unknowing remember

all the things they can’t know when they say “Good for you…” but judge with unwrinkled eyes and tiny fists shooting venom, like Marvel halftone beams white hot with denial

Does the delivery room remember

my red moustache in an eighties flow, holding those babies so precious, waited through all the bad befores and here they are, perfect and undefinable, all worth it

Does the shy boy remember

how it felt to build the rink, leaves falling amber, nailing the boards, dragging the curved corners flat, dreaming of me yet to come, faceless, so I took his with its smiling eyes

Does the upstairs bedroom remember

her reading from Grimm’s, cover corners worn like the tongue of a boot, eyes the sagging hue of fall light but still life giving and aglow, “Who’s that walking across my bridge?” and the silver fillings glitter in the laughter of it

2 thoughts on “Do They Remember?

  1. MT –

    Very good day for me in the geriatric slow pitch league last Monday. Two five inning games – on base safely except for one ground out, heroic play playing catch. Caught the throw to home while falling down, but keeping my feet on home plate getting the put out from the guy trying to go home. Those games made up for multitudinous screwups.

    On the subject of nostalgia – I’m connecting to my youth as my talent level keeps going down to younger ages. I’m at about the twelve year old level now.

    I have lost Maysam and I worry. He did not respond to email, and I have no other way of contact.

    Your Oregon correspondent Doug
    ________________________________

    Liked by 1 person

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