What I Don’t Remember
–Nancy Reas–
I don’t remember crawling
because I could not yet walk
nor my first words
that made sense to others.
I don’t remember not knowing
how to dress myself
(except for tying those finicky shoelaces)
nor how to drink milk from a glass.
Those milestones are lost to me,
much like when it was I
finally let go of my mother’s
skirts and greeted the world
on my own
or had my first creative thought,
my first drawing with crayons
where black lines didn’t matter to me,
the first time I spun around my
bedroom to the music of
the Nutcracker Suite.
I don’t remember when I first
smelled the sea air or the tinny scent
after it rained,
the woodsy smell as my father burned the trash
or the pore-opening explosion of an orange
cut in half.
Nor do I remember when I didn’t love to touch a woolly
caterpillar or feel the warmth of the sun
on my face when the clouds parted.
The memory is gone of when I learned to love artichokes
or French toast with lemon and sugar
or peanut butter scooped out of the jar on my finger,
as it is when my mother sang me my first lullaby,
what I thought when an owl first called to me at night,
or when a pipe organ first filled my head and heart
with multi-colored wonder.
What I don’t remember is silent
What I do remember is deafening.
so much beautiful visceral sense memories – your poem painted such a vivid picture of what you don’t remember.