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From the issue: January 2010 Quarterly
I am so afraid ….. what if the marbles
tumble out in random order
through the laundry shoot in my brain?
…what if I forget to remember –
my son’s name, …or his freckles –
those soft brown spots that I have kissed well,
…or his eyes of sun washed blue that mirror my own.
What if I forget them?
When he comes through that door with flowers, with familiarity …
…what if I forget to remember
that it is me he comes to see?
Losing my marbles.
I fear I will fall headlong into every face
becoming a stranger’s.
I watch her as her tears spill out of a life gaping wide –
Then I remember with a smile
that I carry 3 marbles in my pocket.
I do this when I’m afraid I will forget who I am,
when I think I am not enough,
when I believe again that I am unloved.
Marbles, glass clinking upon glass to remind me of what
I’m apt to forget.
So I reassure her by telling her,
“Each marble you have dropped since I have held your hand,
I have gathered one by one, by three –
can you hear them?
Collected here in my pocket, clinking glass upon glass.
When you sleep at night, I ask your angels
to guard them well.”
But what of the creaking of the door – a stranger might enter
with daisies – white, and freckles?
then I shall lean towards your blank stare
and whisper in time with the opening of the door…
“How nice, your son has come to call.”
I’ll not forget that I love him you know…
this is wrapped tighter in me than the shade of his freckles.
Do remind me to tell him though – not of the marbles –
but of the love.
Again I roll them in my pocket
glass upon glass, marbles –
so I won’t forget to remember.
*****
mgosborn23@comcast.net
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