My father did this amazing thing for me as a child. He kept a journal of my childhood, the early years in particular; a written record of the wonders I found in the everyday when all in the world was new. It is astonishing to revisit an experience through my own words and actions. Like a movie reel of memories, the scenes are played before my eyes, words lift from page to whisper misplaced moments in my ear. Expressions of delight buying my first new pair of shoes at the age of two; impromptu dances seized down aisles of movie theaters and rows of church pews.

Sadly I am not the memory keeper’s daughter, a written account of my more recent years is sporadic and infrequent at best; but it is moments such as tonight that I wish to one day recall: the joys and laughter amongst the company of sisters. Smiles allowed to crease the brow. Untethered words spoken. Tonight in my sisters’ presence their glow lit mine once more – a flower in my hair, a metaphor perhaps, for tonight I blossomed in their sun.

Brief moments in the car in song, my sister sings and I. An aide-mémoire for later years, to bask in love and song.


'It is a curious thought, but it is only when you see people looking ridiculous that you realize just how much you love them.' -Agatha Christie

("he" is not representational of any real persons or events)


he

he would stifle all her pleasure,
to never have her scream.
he would keep her clothed, for his embarrassment
and never have her feel the sun.

he would not hear her speak of happiness,
to never hear her speak of pain.

he would go without her song
he would go without her voice

he would not have her giggle, (had she even once knew how?)
or dance in rain
howl under moon
or sing to stars
of their delight
or stretch her toes in winter's sand, to save her from a chill

himself presented, self-preserved and self-reserved
not with her real self at his hem
her true self lost amongst his doubt
her thoughts away, away, away . . . away and then condemned