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.
Monsters,
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
Comments