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?”
Such powerful thought-provoking images!
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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
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