All
Memories Are Really Half Memories
by Rosemary Freedman
by Rosemary Freedman
All
memories are really half memories;
a
pie without the smell of the pie.
A
photo of you fishing
without
the sting and swell of mosquito bites.
The
lake with small granite colored waves
and
we cannot recall the name of the boy
who
drowned there, or even that he drowned.
We
think back and see all the clear faces,
but
they were never really clear,
because
the sun was almost completely blinding.
And
this is how it is, our brains
on
perpetual auto-correct, fixing the broken half-faces.
Correcting
all the flaws. Tricking us.
Sometimes
we wake up
and
all that is left are uncorrected proofs.
The
half face we could not see
is
filled in with the imperfections,
or
left empty to show what never was.
Sometimes
we see just a blur. The photo someone took
when
putting the camera into their purse.
The
memory we did not pay attention to—
like
that one girl who sat alone in the cafeteria.
You
know—the one with the sleeveless vest people laughed at.
We
keep our memories like children playing four-square,
all
of us seeing them from our own angle.
Some
of the stuff we forget makes life easier.
Children
whose mother left them waiting
on
the front steps
for
a Christmas visit,
only
to get a visit from The Salvation Army people.
They
remember the opening of presents
on
the screened in front porch of grandmother's house.
They
leave out the part that no one was welcome
beyond
the screened in area, because grandmother
was
a hoarder. They do not remember their mother being too drunk to show
up.
All
they recall is playing the red and teal Rockem-Sockem Robots
all
evening, and the laughter and
all
the bright colors.
From
Rosemary Freedman: “I am married and have
seven children. I have a B.A. in creative writing and literature, and
a master's in nursing education, a post-master's as a Nurse
Practitioner and a post-master's as a Clinical Nurse Specialist. When
I am not writing poetry, I work as an advanced practice nurse.”