Memory

Memory

We smooth out the fabric of our past,
Checking for loose threads and holes,
Getting its lines straight and untangled,
Packing it away in undulating folds.

We trust we can rely on it: believe
A question's tug or the yank
Of some familiar thing will set its
Strong structure billowing above us.

Memory is the mind's ripcord:
Without it, Nigel is in freefall,
Flecks of spit forced from a mouth
Distorted by damage from the crash.

A baseball cap squashes his right ear,
Shading eyes that glance furtively
At his wife, an attractive stranger
Holding hands with a small child:

His pre-conceived daughter, born early,
Shock shaking her from the womb's warmth
When his wife learned about the crash
He could have, should have, died in.

He struggles to piece things together,
Sensing memory almost within reach,
Like waking from a vivid dream and even
As you do so, feeling it slip away.

He lets it go, and revels in the moment,
Its taste, feel, sound, sight and smell.
Icecream melting on his tongue,
Hot sun on his neck, the smile of a child,

The crunch of wheels on gravel, perfume,
The nurse's hot breath and grunt of effort
As she pushes him, excitement tenting
The blanket on his lap. He's happy now.