The objects of memory
are soft,
little fingers of a child
discovering the world for the first time
the texture of moss archived on their index and thumb

The objects of memory
are gentle,
kind words like  “muy bien” &“you did it”
as salt water drips down your cheeks and you exit the calm Pacific for the first time to be embraced after with a long soft towel

The objects of memory
are subjective
sometimes lost in the suppressed ocean of “too painful” & too lonesome hiding under a bed

The objects of memory
can be cold,
like the touch of a coffin you couldn’t  see over back when you were only a few feet tall or the feeling you got years after
as you stared from above at your grandparent or the touch of their hand as they lay there


The objects of memory
can be transcendent
like four hours of mediation finally
breaking away the clouds
As if it were mighty Poseidon
just to find Buddha under the bodi tree behind the Stratus cloud


the soothing waves of ocean
during your 100th brand new encounter
lingers in the fervent gleam of today
as you collect new objects of memory

i am from pastel purple easter eggs,
princess dresses covered in glitter
— the kind that gets itself everywhere, all over the floor as i spin around and around while singing along to the jonas brothers at the top of my lungs.

i am from that little yellow house on morningwood ( the only one with the triangle roof ) that we would leave to go to disney world, kentucky, georgia, the moon
— anywhere mom wanted.

i am from nana's spaghetti, splattered all over the offwhite velvet dress i got that christmas morning as i watch any and every disney movie while sat on my belly in front of the tv.

i am from crying at fireworks; the sound not the sight. running after butterfies in the backyard as the sun dips deeper in the suburban sky.

i am from the seemingly little things that some might consider childish. sure, they are, but these memories fill me with happiness.

dorothy was right. there is no place like home.

Two posts emerged on my Facebook,
And sorry I could not peruse both
And be one user, long I stood
And scrolled down one as far as I could
To where it went into a long blockquote;

Then read the other, as just as shared,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was classy and about footwear;
Though as for that the likes there
Had rated them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
I believe with no comments written back.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever tap back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two posts emerged on my Facebook, and I—
I read the one less thumbed-up by,
And that has made all the difference.

Wild dogs of the veldt
stocking shelves in aisle three
     stalking gazelles
with me in supermarkets
     in Savannah
Predatory packs of discount snacks
Toto on the radio
but Georgia always on my mind
Yes, ma'am, I will gladly help you find
     the best watering hole
     this side of my primitive soul
But, pray, don't leave me in the morningtime
before I've got the chance to find
a ride home