Down the memory lane of my forgetful mind,
I have forgotten almost all,
But you;
You are still a part of,
Countless flashbacks, that:
Bring tears to my eyes,
A smile to my lips,
And love to my soul.

Countless times,
I have tried,
To let go of you...
But you always hold on my to mind,
As if without each other,
We would remain incomplete.

Countless are the ways,
By which I have managed to,
Hate you hard,
And end up,
Loving you harder;
As if,
It’s easier for my being,
To die countless deaths for loving you,
Than to, without a thought of you,
Spend countless eternities.

With a warm load of folded laundry under my chin
I head toward Daniel’s sock drawer
Pulling on the carefully crafted handle I see
My grandfather cutting and planning the cherry tree
Dropped by Hurricane Carol in 1954
Wood shavings fall about his work boots as he
Shapes each panel, never using a ruler, all by eye
Boxing the frame, sizing the drawers, sanding surfaces
By hand, hence 60 years of grandkids and great grandkids socks
The drawer closes effortlessly with a sound
Of living heirlooms and heritage
Of legacy and family
A sound that everything is safe inside
That memorials are made to last

All these common hours
Have a theory
But, what does time
Really tell?
It brings the point closer
When we're all living
In hell.
Flashbacks are
A virtue
But,can also be
A sin.
The pain still burns
From within.
These glass walls close
The memories in.
Yet, this is the price
I will pay
Just to fade away.
But I will soon expire.
To them I am just
A grain of sand
Waiting to be
Washed away.
But, my secret is
That I, the lonely grain of sand,
Make up the glass
That keeps me in.
I am my own cage;
My combination unbreakable.
Will anyone let me out
During these common hours
While I still have air?

I remember hiding under an old cherry wood dining table. I remember holding my baby sister, shielding her eyes, covering her and trying to tuck her away. Pulling her as close to me as possible, like I might be able to fold her skin into mine so she wouldn’t have to see what was happening around us. I can still hear her crying into my bony 7 year old shoulder and whaling amongst the chaos with the bitty 4 year old voice that she had at the time. I remember the heart stopping feeling of watching my mother get thrown into the wall and watching my brother, 11 years older than myself, hurtle the beautiful antique silver coffee *** that my grandmother left us- into the space near her head where it bludgeoned the wall. I remember barely being taller than the table myself and pulling my sister out when I saw a chance for us to escape the scene and run into another room.  I remember turning around and seeing my older sister, who was 10 at that time, running up and hitting and kicking my brother and getting shoved to the side. I’ve grown accustomed to the headaches I now get at the sight of flashing police lights.

Sometimes I get one of those nostalgic feelings rush through me whenever I get a whiff of fresh plaster or spackle. It reminds me of all those times my dad would have to patch up another hole in one of the walls. At one point he would only do it once a week. When you know that there’ll just be more the next day, why not wait a while and fix them all at the same time? Eventually he stopped fixing them altogether. I used to think it meant it was okay and that when I got angry enough I could just put a hole in the wall too and add to the collection of broken bits of my family. When my parents discovered the accumulation of chasms in my wall, my dad made me learn how to fix them because I was not allowed to react the same way as my brother. Needless to say, I rarely put my hand or foot through the walls after the first 2 times I had to fix them. I wish there was some way they could have managed to get my brother to fix the voids he’d created. Perhaps, he’d have learned how much the damage you inflict can affect those around you. I know I certainly did.