Patchwork

 

Spent most of Wednesday wondering

why we hold on to what we do.

 

The smell that lingers

just after all the candles on a birthday cake are blown out,

            sweetly smoldering celebration of the passing of time.

 

I can’t remember her face or even her name,

            though, I’ve scavenged the archives of my mind for resolution.

But I can remember the scar on her shoulder
            and the way she always hid her left hand,

behind her back, as in shame.

 

Desert flowers drowning under heavy skies,

The dress I wore everyday for a month when I was three,

            despite my mother’s pleading.

 

The song playing in the background at the grocery
           made me stop cold.

            Why we ever stopped speaking, I can’t recall—

                        Still, I couldn’t bring myself to mail him the letter

                       I put a stamp on months ago
                       and stashed away.

 

Wet paint that dried on my skin and began
to peel away in the shape of a dove,

 

The eccentric organizational structure
of my grandfather’s kitchen table

            all odds and ends spread out like treasure.

                        A solution for every problem,                                    

scored by a chorus of genial pups.

 

The way the fog clung to particles of light

as we drove home.

 

I could hang on to the atmosphere forever.

 

And how it was so beautiful, I cried

as the sky opened up through the trees
while it rained on the sunset.

            Those colors, god those colors

                                   paralyzed me.

 

The quilt of life, stitched by hand

goose bumps and pinpricks

            reminders that we’re still alive.

 

But as far as these things go,

most of the time, they’re all I really need.

 

Wishing I had more photographs of the people I love.

 

Soothing, the quiet of night,
with only crickets and passing cars
anchoring the drift into space.

 

Those moments when nothing happens

Knowing you can never have those hours back.

 

I guess that’s why they always said
Make of it what you can.

 

Make of it what you can
and take of it what you can.

            Leave the rest so you

have something to come back to.

Reviews

[Donald Meikle]

Nicely tatted,a novel stroll down Memory Lane. or a tied together kite string of recollection. The soft warm comfort of a quilt is feelable

[Bennet Ingvall]

This is beautiful and I love it. Thank you for sharing it, because I really connected to it. I don't have any constructive criticism or anything at all; I actually think it's rather perfect.

[Emily B]

This is a beautiful patchwork of the fabric of your life. Very well written.