In my memory the sky seems too blue,

too dark, or too full of clouds to see.

And their voices too much for

a child’s ear, not overly loud or harsh

but full of the world and understanding.

 

I cannot visit them where they are,

the places are lost to me, unknown,

overgrown. The odd trinket, a cufflink,

a few coins, a cane and a cup are

reminders of a legacy too easily lost.

 

The aroma of coffee, tobacco and peaches

are trinkets of another kind. They are ever

present markers, stones and lines spanning

memory, time, earth; last words, final

thoughts, the dying wish for one last taste.

 

What I remember now is all that is left of

a grandfather, grandmother, too many

aunts and an uncle Joe. Even my mother

and father are fading from what I know

to what I remember; their voices still too much.