The floor is piled with tattered,
age washed images.
These faces breathe again after years behind the glass.
I never knew he went there, did that,
met her, and a subdued laughter joins the somber air.

My first memories of you are like these dusty pictures.
I remember my tall, wind blown,
cowboy uncle from Texas.
You had to be a 1980’s cigarette poster in my 4 year old mind, there in my Colorado world all the way from
the home state that I knew nothing of.
We rode a train; you bought me stuffed animals,
your mustache reminded me of
a bristly broom,
and I stared at your
cowboy boots of legend
as you and my father talked
leather and Cadillacs.

I see a little of myself in your faded eyes looking back.
I wonder which of these you look like now.
What are those eyes beholding now?  
We have only
a feeble grasp of time.
I refill my whiskey glass.
I play the slide show again.
I smoke a cigar much to my wife’s dismay.
I cry, I laugh, I remember.

Playing Battleship with you,
When you gave it to me one Christmas, until you were sick of it.
My first real bottle of cologne,
your museum of a house with a real suit of armor,
eating hot salsa to impress you,
petting the dolphins at Sea World,
you teaching me to draw , my high school graduation
my wedding, and I remember…
Not wanting to see you suffer while holding your hand.
You were happy to see me even though it hurt you to talk.

I am not writing you this for closure or maybe I am.
Funny the way we lie to ourselves.
I am writing to remember.
Because I need the words to go with
the pictures,
I need to know where your were,
was it Morocco, Istanbul, Rome,
The Caribbean, Korea,
Germany, San Antonio? What year was this? When did you have a Camaro?
Who was she? Did you really get a date with Doris Day?
You left me with too many questions, so I need the words to remember,
for the sake of memory.