I may not remember our names,
or how your huge hand made a shell for mine,
as if protecting, possessing it,
or how you held me, sustained me
I may not remember being young or growing old,
or how you'd watch me.
"You laugh at the silliest things." You'd say,
then roar as if tickled by absurdity
we captured, frolicked in its rapture.
I may not remember how well you cooked,
the garden you tended,
your addiction to books,
your love - of family and almost everyone you'd meet,
or how you did your best to dance, to whatever tune
I liked, or listen to whatever I perceived important,
whatever not, dismiss.
But you didn't always succumb to me.
Did we discuss, fight, fuss?
I probably won't remember.
When I'm one hundred,
even if my mind no longer sparks,
but my body still inhales,
I won't need memories of you.
You are my breath.
|My husband is in a pottery class.|
This sculpture of his grandfather is his first piece.
I went to visit an elementary school with my daughter. (Grandson starts kinergarten in the fall.) One of the third grade classes was displaying an essay assignment titled "When I'm One Hundred", which inspired me to write this poem. Some of their ideas were hilarious. So cute.
(Submitted to Dverse Poets.)