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