It happened when I went back,
More to prove I could than anything,
Went back to reclaim a long-lost prize
(Washburn Hawk electric, burgundy finish)
The prize returned, swaddled in rough woven plastic
(So digital, so ordered, the threads running over and under
Like the 010101 of some programmer's tinkertoy.
Each thread so weak, each cloth so strong)
Repaired by a man who, whatever else
Was always a friend,
(Even when I hated them, I loved him,
The same side of the coin, you see)
At the station (where even now I sit)
Waiting for the train (as now)
I wondered at the return
Of a long-departed friend.
And, when exploring the once-familiar black holster
The memory of touch came back.
And as clumsy fingers surfed the fabric
I found them.
The marsupial pouch to the front
Drew my attention like a beacon.
(Writers are attracted to pockets and pouches
Nooks and crannies, stories and secrets).
I opened the pocket to satisfy the demon of my curiosity
Peeled back the fabric seal
And with a wonderful scrrritch of velcro
Another me stepped out.
A me made not (as they claim of the hand writing the poem)
Of breath and clay, sin and salvation,
But spit and polish, hope and memory
Ink and paper.
Letters. That's all they were
26 phonetic symbols, around 8 punctuation marks
Pigment on pulp, nothing,
Everything.
What a marvel is the mind, all neurones firing,
A grey sponge in a calcium cup, one meal for a hungry buzzard
That can turn chicken-scratch nib marks
Into pure unadulterated memory
This other me was younger
(Bloom of youth? Tabula Rasa?
Mild, untempered humanity)
And these nineteen months have been tough.
We share so much and so little. Trivia separates us,
But makes us who we are,
I read of friends forgotten
Loves long buried.
These letters (from a woma
Who was, albeit briefly, the world to me)
Tell me more about myself, about change
Than a thousand blind ambles down my own memory lane.
I am that I am,
The sum of my surroundings, my past,
My thoughts, my loves, but I still miss
The young man in the letters.