Author's Note: Here is a poem ending in remembrance, from my last book Some Glad Morning. I hope none of you have anything to regret, and that your memories are good ones.
nothing. Not those years when you were a single mother, bologna casserole, and not enough money for heat. Or the years before, the ones spent trying to please a man who couldn’t be happy, no matter how hard you tried to replicate his mother’s recipes— the marinara wasn’t sweet enough, the lasagna didn’t have enough layers. Don’t regret the years that went up in smoke, the glamour of the lit match, the first drag, the curls that rose to decorate the ceiling. Or the years as a waitress, the customers who stiffed you on tips, which were quarters and nickels back then, every thin dime counting. Instead, remember your friends, those hours on the telephone, the artery of the long black cord, a river of voice. Don’t tell me that broken places make you stronger, and I won’t mention silver linings. Sometimes, there are scars. Sometimes, it rains. Stop looking for the friends who aren’t here, the ones whose faces you sometimes glimpse in a crowd. The past is the grass growing under our feet; the dirt beneath it, what feeds it. Remember that nothing is ever lost.
©2021 Barbara Crooker
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