How quickly the days and weeks disappear.
If it weren’t for these little poems and these weekly posts, what would I actually remember?
It’s always surprising to me how much of each day just slips away.
Where does it all go?
There are those who say we do actually record every minute detail of our lives somewhere in our memories.
And there are people living with photographic memories.
Does their existence prove the above claim to be true?
I wonder what it would be like to recall the exact position of each marble my son left on the floor on some evening two or three weeks ago.
I wonder what it would be like to remember the details of more important things than scattered marbles.
Perhaps some day I’ll find out.
river birds diving for fish
in the setting sun
the striking beauty of
a well swept path
the missing remote
under the couch
tree roots crack
the road
in ones or twos or threes
the maple leaves
remembering
another me
across the street
daughter on a leash
