I remember very little really.
Most of my memories are from listening to stories repeated over and over
till they became my memory
And of photos.
These pictures, matched those pictures, and I have a few photos that confirm
I was there.
I am in the photos.
The stories told match.
It must be true. So I remember them,
and retell them,
and make them mine.
Picnics, days at the beach, ballet recitals
Birthdays, funerals, Christmas Day
Stories and photos of them all.
I remember them but cannot feel them in my soul
I cannot dredge up the time and place with my other senses
only from remembering the stories and the photos.
There are no smells, or taste, or resonance to these memories
I can’t confirm them
the stories and photos say it is so
and I am in them.
I can see me on that rock,
in that tutu,
in front of that Christmas tree
so it must be so,