Remembering to Say Goodbye

Sometimes it is better to leave things untouched.

An open mouth attracts flies.

An exposed belly, a fillet knife.

When I was little, my uncle goaded me to ride

the rollercoaster.

I had finally achieved the required height,

But in the last moment, I demurred,

not knowing that wooden rollercoaster days were numbered,

and memories are easily disassembled

into artifacts auctioned off to the highest bidder.

I might have bought a carousel horse,

or maybe a cotton candy machine.

Who does not love a memory of cotton candy,

or the delightfully smooth flank and mane of a colorfully harnessed steed?

Listening to an old voice reminded me of how tired I had become,

how disappointing it was to live with regret,

the boy’s fingers out stretched, to this tall.

A little thing,

a series of digits,

that are nothing to me except as a metaphor,

the way a bowlful of shaved ice

is still just water.

I don’t have to pretend to be shorter or taller than I am,

anymore.

I can listen for the whistling in the wind,

the old wood frames creaking in the strain,

and carefully,

I can almost hear the gleeful screaming.

Dean at Home: The Pandemic Blog