Memories (or a Million)
I remember:
there was a day a sparrow fell
from the sky and landed
at my feet.
“Dead” my mother announced,
pulling me closer
and I looked up at her as if toward a building
from the ground.
Her face eclipsed the sun.
My hand was small in hers.
“Don’t touch it” she said.
I didn’t have to.
It had fallen from inside me.
I looked back only once.
I knew I would remember.
I could not forget
(though it was gone,
I had it with me).
I remember:
My grandmother has many children
Not just her own, for she has raised
countless others
so I have many, many cousins
as I grow
in a cozy little apartment
with frayed couches
and chicken pepper pasta
play checkers with chess pieces
(and she tells me I can’t just cheat and go back a turn
just because I’m losing
but she lets me do it anyway).
sometimes her children visit
and I think about how large she has made her family
how gentle hands and a soft voice
can create a entire world
how just the memory
creates this world for me.
When there is nothing else,
this I will always have.
This I will always remember.
I remember:
A long time ago,
you told me the story
of how you got that scar on your cheek.
I remember
your voice grew low
and your tone solemn and somber
your eyes dropped
and your reluctant gaze peeked out
from behind dark eyelashes
to tell a tale
from deep within yourself.
It was a grave story
personal and delicate
and painful for you
to take a piece of it
to hand it to someone else.
Though you are gone,
This piece I have always.
These are pieces of others
Pieces of me
mingled
that I carry.
These and a million more:
If they are all I have,
They are all I need.