I think I was happy
I think I was loved
Proof of such claims
Who are my memory keepers?
The quiet distant ones
The journals lost in the flood
Memories cling weakly
to my imagination,
twisting themselves up into fanciful sounding fictions.
I become doubtful of a life previously lived.
I envy you, dear reader, who has holiday tables
filled round with memory keepers —
those with whom you can debate truths out loud.
Each argument had,
each audible replay
fills colors into your mind’s memory film,
constantly remastering the memory reels in your head,
while my worn film continues to fade.
My worn film continues to bubble under the hot bulbs
and tangle in the reels.
What does this low quality film say of the memories within?
Does the happiness of that childhood degrade with neglect?
Or can I cling to feelings without film and know my memories are true?
Even when there’s no one left to help me keep them.