(G. Fletcher)

The camera is carefully purchased,
recording first steps,
new puppies,
Christmas ribbons,
a toothless grin,
the Grand Canyon at dusk;
last-ever chance and
first opportunity;
focusing a moment in time
on which to hang our
memories.
(We don’t count the cost of film and developers.)

But wait – which shoe box holds
our middle child’s 16th birthday?
Why is yellow staining the
fourth-grade smile,
the many-hued honeymoon sunset of
ten years ago dissolving
into streaks of red?
And who is this lady looking at
us so solemnly from her fur –
topped flapper costume?
(Have we built our mountains of remembrances on foundations of sand?)