Ex Memoriam.
Strange how the small things linger.
The minutiae of memory
standing out against the broad canvas of a life.
This close to the end, I remember
so many things from the beginning;
emerging now,
sloughing off the dead skin of familiarity.
Mocking me,
hurting me,
bringing a smile to my lips despite myself.
If I let them,
they tumble over each other
like puppies in a basket,
like children clamouring for attention,
like a shoal of piranha
biting constantly at my concentration
and ripping my heart to shreds.
And yet,
this close to the end,
what have I left
but the small memories?
The scar on your lip and the laugh of your voice...
the pain of joy in your face as you held our children
newborn and needful...
the hate in your eyes as you tell me to go.
Kim Helen James
12/5/95
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