So many writers draw upon memories for their beautiful works, and I love to read them all. So many kind readers who have read some of my memories have been gracious enough to share similar memories with me in their reviews. And what strikes me most is that so few of those memories are about huge, life-changing moments. Most are about rocking on the porch and listening to crickets or sitting in the kitchen and watching robins outside the window.
My first memory in this poem is of the pears we picked from our two backyard pear trees and then wrapped in pages of the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin to save for winter. They were then stored in our cool attic. The second memory is one of the few I have of my mother, who always crafted leftover pie crust into cinnamony delights for me to snack on when baking was done. And, of course, I was allowed to help. Such little things, but such large memories.
Makes one wonder if it really is all that important if you ever get that dream trip to Paris or go bungee jumping off some cliff in the Amazon. :-)

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