Memento

I give a piece quite near away, then another, one and two to three and say good-bye with some dismay. We might have been twins, I born in May and she of the blistered January colored like the vibrant cray- on, clinging on to toys of the day, as mine become that of history. “Again,” she cries and I obey. I hold the script of the gone by matinee: before I ever found a scar, a yawn, a he; past the years I’ve spun to macramé. Soon I must go, and she will stay, dwelling under the apple tree, never to wander blind in first foray. Sentient air, lead her not to disarray. She flails. I walk. We are matching memory. I have things she never will, a little say. So I pull away and board the last ferry. Treasures, 2014 by Leanna Wright