It’s a long time ago, even for me it seems particularly far away and possibly just out of my reach (when the alarm rings in the morning and you stretch to turn it off, but can’t quite get your finger on the button. It is also accompanied by that sleepy ache of interrupted dreams.)

You started this — I want to blame someone for the heartbreak these memories bring me and just now when I’d finally had them neatly filed in a notebook (digital and hard copy) that I could easily ignore. but you had to post that photo and it got me to thinking, longing really, for her laugh and her touch, and now I’ve spent the last two days in a swirl of memories all which eddy around her personality—it’s all I have left.

Today then, I dug out the stub of a hard drive and plugged it in and thought I’d go somewhere else with other memories, but they led me here—as they have in the past and will in the future. and of course, it’s getting close to Mother’s Day, and the day she died, and her birthday, a swirl of longing, events I can’t change or obliterate, they are history after all, mine and hers and still just a moment of that laugh I think to myself would be all I need to, to, to what I wonder? What will it do for me now? If I could just hear it—it’s there, I know it is, but it’s behind a wall, a cloud, a stone pillar, earthy and pungent and lost, blurry and indistinct, for it’s both visual and auditory at the same time. What good would one be without the other I ask myself when I know I’d settle for one, just one little peek, one little ha ha ha, an inhalation of Marlboro, a smoke ring a halo.


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© Robert Patrick, and Cultivar, 2008-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts, photographs and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Robert Patrick and Cultivar with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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