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.