top of page
  • Brooke Miller

home videos

There is a part of me that blames

my young naive mind

and bright blue eyes

for being so blind.

To not remember

every moment of you.

To only have

a few cassettes left of your face

in the fuzzy film of the video camera

from 2000

that Mama used to hold

with smooth hands.

I was so blind.

I wasn’t able to recount

how many threads were weaved

to create your white T-shirt

and the exact shade of your skin.

I want to remember

the sound of your voice,

not the muffled laugh

I hear when I play scratched up film

of you and I

catching butterflies

on the front lawn.

The sole memories of you and I

now lay in boxes of dust.

I have nothing

but a few small

cassettes with bleeding ink

that I keep under the bed.


clawing out to me,

trying to pull those

memories from my brain.

But my three year-old self

was too young,

too blind.

I don’t remember

each thread of your T-shirt

or the dimples in your cheeks.

All I remember of you

is the static of your voice.

I should have been able to see

every laugh,

every blink,

with much more than just a clip.

-home videos


Art by Caroline Mealia


bottom of page