Memory is Defined by What We Forget

by Valerie Valdes

The face of the girl on the bus. The smell of ripe peaches
rotting on wet grass. Asphalt shredding skin
on a knee fallen from a wobbling bicycle.
Products on random aisles in the supermarket.
Pages of math problems. Waffles for breakfast
three years ago Sunday. Every person
who ever passed you on the street stepping aside
to make room for your baby’s first laugh, the feel
of a tiny hand clutching your finger, the weight
of a new life cradled quietly in your arms,
its memory blank as a white flag of surrender.

Notes:

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