It’s all memory. Hardly anything
is the present. How a dusty lane
feels soft to bare feet.
How a grandmother hid us
when we let the cows out.
How a stepfather held us when we cried,
made us laugh and became
our father. How my brother-
in-law died early from asbestos
on his Navy ships. How
we tell ourselves the future
so often it becomes memory,
and we say to each other:
``When he comes, when he comes
home, when he comes home
from Iraq.’’ I want this
to be memory, and not future.
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A truly wonderful poem! I love the opening two lines, love how the memories flow seamlessly into the present. Really beautiful!
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