Collective Memory

Memory – in all its forms – is another topic that fascinates me, and since today appears to have been a good day for thinking about this, the token poem, unsurprisingly tackles the same theme. I hope you enjoy!

My maternal grandfather, somewhere in the Danube Delta.
My maternal grandfather, somewhere in the Danube Delta.

(DAY 16)


I don’t remember you,
but, writing down these lines,
my hand remembers:
the counterweight of your laughter,
the frail strength of your arms,
the ghost of tobacco
escorting your skin everywhere
like an old courtesan
adopted into the wife’s
household. I think
my hands remember, too,
the words you never spoke
to me, the veiled worry
and the sadness. There is
a prickle at the tips
of my fingers as I’m writing
this – that’s how I can tell
you’re there, even if
I don’t remember you.
Nevermind, you weren’t made
to scratch an image
in the mind, like other
people. Your memory is etched
beyond these things,
in the colour of my eyes,
in the motion of my hands,
and my butterfly effect
in the fabric of the universe.

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