It’s strange how banished memories find their way back into my head,
And curl up in some fold of the brain.
The way memories in hibernation wake up from their furrow,
At the sound of a familiar voice,
Or a fleeting look of recognition on a stranger’s face.
An occasional stir in the sleep, followed by a sting,
Or worse, a total awakening from slumber
Causing mild showers down the cheeks.
It’s strange that these memories are part of my being
And I would rather enjoy the distress of their presence
Than the emptiness of their absence.