I wish I could remember us
that day in 1951
when in your arms you cradled me,
our lives together just begun.
That summer day in '53,
I wish I could remember us,
two bathing beauties on the beach,
just hanging out, no need for fuss.
The pose we struck in '55,
your polka dots, my party dress --
I wish I could remember us
on days so filled with happiness.
But memories abandon me,
eight Christmas mornings turned to dust.
If I could ask for just one thing,
I wish I could remember us.
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Author Notes
May 28 marks the 50th anniversary of the death of my mother.
She died days after I turned eight. I have a handful of impressionistic memories of her that I cherish, but they are few.
I have collected all the photos I can find of us together, not many as my father was not big on saving things, and put them in an album. Sadly, I cannot remember a single event the photographs capture - days in our backyard on the swing or in the sand box, vacation photos, birthday party celebrations, Christmas mornings under the tree. I know the people in the pictures are my mother and me, but the photos are the only evidence I have that we shared those experiences. The memories are just not there.
The poem says the rest.
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