object of memory

we must return to where it was lost / if we want to find it again

Tag: poetry

  • 525,600 minutes x 7

    525,600 minutes x 7

    One of my favorite people in all the universes—known and yet to be discovered—turned seven today. It feels strange to think I’ve only known him for three years. Perhaps they were light-years or some other measure of time yet to be documented. Perhaps this little guy, who isn’t so little anymore, will be the one to discover it.

    Time brought us together. Time, as in the hours of preschool. Time, as in the minutes left of play. Time, in its exactness: the space between now and next and then. Time as the locus of everything—comfort and discomfort, measurable yet boundless. Like empathy. Feeling. Love.

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  • unintentional poetry

    Poetry is, indeed, everywhere.

    Unintentional preschool poem:

    Numbers are letters

    but you don’t know that

    because you are sweet.

  • metal heart

    metal heart

    Ellie weeps. Something in her weekly journal entry has made her sad, but she cannot find the words to explain why. “My scooter wasn’t going in the direction I wanted it to,” she had said earlier as the class talked about their weekends, but I wonder if there is something deeper in the statement.

    She weeps intermittently through our morning project about the human body, though she pauses and joins the class in drawing the heart. As they work, I say to them softly, “Think about how your heart pumps. Think about how your heart nourishes your brain, your lungs. What shapes do you see? What movement?”

    A child lobs a loaded question at the group: “What is more important, your heart or brain?” “That depends,” I say, smiling slyly. “It really depends.” Ellie glares at her peer and says matter-of-factly, “If you don’t have a heart, you die.” My own heart pumps quickly in reaction to her words.

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  • body narrative

    body narrative

    Much to my loving husband’s chagrin, I adore tattoos. I have several and the collection has grown in recent years. With age I have found a deeper connection with my body, my skin. In spaces where I once wished to obscure my stories, I now find beauty in the reveal. I enjoy the feeling of the art being tattooed. There is something about the needle work that calms and serves as markers of time, moments, and meaning.

    The relationship between my body and me is complex at best. The empowerment derived from having a history I control written upon it is more meaningful than I ever imagined.

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