I remember colored baby chicks, dying eggs, and filling baskets
with plastic grass, and sometimes wildflowers,
but only at the farm.
I remember shopping for new white shoes, a hat, and gloves, and trips to the fabric store for yellow-dotted Swiss and white netting
for the petticoat.
I remember waking early, hoping to find chocolate eggs, jellybeans,
and small treasures hidden in the grass, bookmarks, hairbands,
for my brother, a metal truck.
I remember the fuss and busyness of getting ready for church, and when I was older dressing three squirmy sisters
who only wanted to play.
I remember piling in the car, all five of us plus Mom and Dad
trying not to wrinkle, scuff my shoes, or forget the new holy card
tucked in my prayer book.
I remember sitting through Mass, the holy music ringing
through my ears, and the hushes and warning to sit still,
“We’ll be home soon.”
I remember posing for photographs, lined up, perfect,
the videos of hunting for eggs and my brother tossing his basket
treasures into the street.
I remember growing up, becoming a mom, dying eggs,
sewing matching outfits, hiding eggs, Easter mornings, and taking photographs.
I remember it all.
. . .
“Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.”
Memories flood onto the page painting a portrait of another life, another time. Did the events occur just this way? The mind, a slippery, unreliable storyteller convinces me of the truth, but the space between now and then blurs the lines of reality.
The real question is, “Does it matter?”
The sights, sounds, and feelings of the past seem close enough to touch. I chose to leave them in that liminal time.
When I sent these remembrances to my husband, he responded, “I hope you and I always take the time to remember and each memory becomes a part of the poem we live.”
That is a memory, etched in cyberspace on the virtual page of an email.