Memories

We speak of resurrection

as a kind of memory.

The scraps of the past that linger

in our lives.

The photos of those who went before us

still here.  

Perhaps in 2D only,

we resurrect a piece of them through the glossy shine.

Some mountain top moment

frozen in time.

Sometimes resurrection is more visceral than even a photo.

Standing among the zinnias today,

I saw my grandmother.

I snip the last of the mint

resist making iced tea.

Oh that life got so busy

And I didn’t take the time to really watch her make it.

Surely she’ll appear

to leave me a Pyrex measuring glass of fresh iced tea.

A little mint.

A little lemon.

A little sweet.

It was always just right.

Standing on the edge of the coast

I watch my new family

frolic in the waves

squeal with delight.

It’s a photograph in my mind

like the photograph of my Grandmother

laughing at the water’s edge.

She never got to meet my new family

But when I stand knee-deep in the sea

zinnias or ocean

she is there.

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