A year expands or contracts
Depending on how I remember it.
I remember some of it meaning
something although most likely
I remember it differently, if not
inaccurately. A patchwork of
moments suspended in time, a
museum in my mind: something
someone said that made me laugh.
Brushing sand off my legs. My friend
radiant & awestruck in a white dress.
The neighbors’ dogs barking at me
when I walk alone hoping to catch
the sunset. Opening the fridge
one morning to find one egg left
in the tray. Letting something go,
watching it scurry into a corner,
out of reach for now. Bus rides.
Saying I don’t know. The last page
of a book. New perfume. Seeing
someone I love through a window.
White strands. Things breaking down.
The inconveniences, the graceless
motions. Still we go on. Saying
I love you out loud. Sitting down to
share a meal with every single
person I care about. I realize
these days more than ever that
all of these are gifts. Thoughts
I shouldn’t have kept to myself.
And the ones I should have.
Meanwhile, other things happen.
Elsewhere. I get the sense that the
earth is a watchful earth. Maybe none
of us are heroes. Maybe all of us are.
A year expands or contracts depending
on how I remember it and I try not
to wonder where the time went.
I keep thinking about the things
I no longer remember. Where do
they go? A new year swings open—
an amber glow, the smell of fresh
flowers, voices and clinks, music
to dance to. I step through.