Day 634 March 28, 2022

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 What Do We Remember?

What do we remember from the beginning of time? The dark areolae of my mother’s breasts. A boy’s apartment and the Formica kitchen table. Powdered mashed potatoes in a box. A tabletop egg cooker. A warm cloth diaper fresh from the dryer. Hot vinyl car seats. Long lines of movie goers stretching down the street. A snow storm so deep we walked to the grocery store with a sled. Picking out dresses and things I’d like to own out of a Sears catalog with a waitress at a lodge in Maine. Ketchup drizzled over rice. A picture of the dog that ran away. A sweater knit by a woman who died of cancer. The feel of carpet on my cheek. The smell on the inside of a wood chest. The sound of a violin in the next room.

It has been cold enough the chicken font froze.


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