In my memory their voices are too much
for a child’s ear, not overly loud or harsh
just full of the strange world of adults.
I cannot visit them where they are now.
The places are lost to me,
far away, unknown, overgrown.
The odd trinket, a cufflink,
a few coins, a cane,
reminders of a legacy too easily lost.
The aroma of coffee, tobacco and peaches
are trinkets of another kind,
markers spanning memory and time.
Reminders of 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 father and brother
are fading from what I know
to what I remember,
their voices still too much.