I do the rest.
I only remember what you tell me to.
I see it all,
in its perfect form and shape.
The way the light hits it,
the time of day, and the color of it.
But only when you tell me to.
I can tell you how I like to remember it.
But perhaps, you want me to remember it differently?
I can remember it darker or brighter, perhaps?
Perhaps, you want me to remember it with a little more color?
A little less?
I only remember what you tell me to.
I see it all,
But I don’t get to choose the memory.
What, perhaps, will we remember today?
The fire red hydrant you walk by every day?
The silent blue sky you see as you walk out of the station?
The pinkish-red people burnt by a sun so harsh in the season?
I can remember it if you so wish.
But I don’t get to choose.
Three People at a Table.
Brother was lowered into the ground, dirt hit the wood with a deep percussive sound, and in the loss,
a raging fire in my parents and I, extinguished.
Three people awkwardly learning the new house routine,
with a hint of emptiness in the air.
Four places were set, but only three arrived.
A quick glance around the dinner table,
a blank look meets my eyes as we sat.
The piercing silence at the table prevent me to speak,
Maybe I’ll get scolded by my father once more,
I’ll have to watch my words.
Maybe my mother forgets what I said,
I’ll have to repeat my words
The piercing silence at the table prevent me to speak,
Gears start to turn as I think of what to say,
hands aggressively shake in frustration,
The teeth start to clench as my mind draws a blank.
a quiet sigh escapes my body,
Worried faces turn toward me in confusion,
thinking of the brother covered with dirt.
The insufferable silence at the table prevent me to speak,
three people around a table, finally a family.
Just one life was the cost of three people this close.
Therein lies the dilemma, but the silence is comfortable.
Somehow,
I’m alone at a table of three.