Feb. 12, 2013
It's 11:10 a.m.
I'm sitting on a pool deck in Miami Beach.
Two of my children
cavort in the water.
The weather report says 27 degrees Celsius
but there's a late morning breeze
and scattered clouds
that occasionally
block the sun.
I'm starting the middle of the second week of
our February vacation.
The weather app on my phone informs me that
it's still raining in Quito,
sunny in Miami,
dead winter in Calgary, Boston and NY.
I send warm rays of
sunshine to the north,
Great White and otherwise.
How do I unravel a childhood
to get at the adolescent -
pre- and young adult - that lies dormant inside me?
My family is no help.
My memories are closed off
locked somewhere:
Access denied.
No journal or diary to read.
No love letters to remember.
No photographs to help
jar my poor memory,
atrophied,
lost in space and time.
So, I must look to the present.
The only way to the past.
But, then again, maybe it's not
important anymore.
The past, I mean.
So, I stop trying to open that door,
any door.
It's 11:25 a.m.
The sound of boats in the bay.
The voices of my son and daughter.
The soft breeze.
The warm sun.
The blue skies.
Birds skittering over the water
dipping low for a drink and quickly scooting away.
Tempt me back to the present.
A cliché moment, perhaps.
But my moment nonetheless.
Cross posted to Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life Tuesdays
It's 11:10 a.m.
I'm sitting on a pool deck in Miami Beach.
Two of my children
cavort in the water.
The weather report says 27 degrees Celsius
but there's a late morning breeze
and scattered clouds
that occasionally
block the sun.
I'm starting the middle of the second week of
our February vacation.
The weather app on my phone informs me that
it's still raining in Quito,
sunny in Miami,
dead winter in Calgary, Boston and NY.
I send warm rays of
sunshine to the north,
Great White and otherwise.
How do I unravel a childhood
to get at the adolescent -
pre- and young adult - that lies dormant inside me?
My family is no help.
My memories are closed off
locked somewhere:
Access denied.
No journal or diary to read.
No love letters to remember.
No photographs to help
jar my poor memory,
atrophied,
lost in space and time.
So, I must look to the present.
The only way to the past.
But, then again, maybe it's not
important anymore.
The past, I mean.
So, I stop trying to open that door,
any door.
It's 11:25 a.m.
The sound of boats in the bay.
The voices of my son and daughter.
The soft breeze.
The warm sun.
The blue skies.
Birds skittering over the water
dipping low for a drink and quickly scooting away.
Tempt me back to the present.
A cliché moment, perhaps.
But my moment nonetheless.
Cross posted to Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life Tuesdays
Comments
I do hope you enjoyed the moment!
Yes, there are lots of questions left unanswered in this poem. I do need to explore them further. Lots of personal issues that I need to make peace with and flesh out. I wasn't sure this blog was the place to start this process but I thought if I made this public then it would force me to confront the ghosts in my closet.
Yes, I do want my memories but I'm also wary of what they will bring...
Thank you for your comments.
Yes, I have to decide to just make peace with the past that remains in the dark or to do more work to uncover what I don't remember. Do I want to do that? I don't know. Maybe it's better to focus on the present.