We do not remember the mundane.
Time has a way of stretching
so that joy lengthens as reams of silk
in the memory
And pain’s a brief rent,
or is assuaged by the blessing of hindsight,
which covers the tracks of grief’s ravages.
We do not remember the long days.
We recall moments,
their details etched
gilded by the light we’ve bestowed
when first graced by their presence.
We do not remember much,
but for the stories our memories
choose to tell us,
which perhaps say more
than the experiences
impressed upon us.
We do not remember fully,
and yet we reverently hold
what we’ve come to cherish,
and the rest we’re given
the blessing of a softened gaze
that blurs offenses
and engenders charity.
We do not remember,
or perhaps remember to forget
so that creases and folds iron out,
and all that we now see
are smoothed screens of silk
billowing in the breeze,
their remnants covered by love.
Ana Lisa de Jong