A memory.
I often wonder
if it’s genuine—
truly mine
or
fabricated.
Planted
like a tiny bean
poked
into a Styrofoam cup
full of loam.
How it’s fortified
reinforced
from stories
recited ‘round the dinner table
at Thanksgiving.
The old ones
laughing
until wine spittles
on what remains of a turkey leg.
And a little girl—
the one living inside me
tries to recollect
remember
amusing a roomful of grown-ups
long, long ago.
No snapshot.
No triggering aroma.
No synapse whatsoever
to reclaim what’s lost—
or perhaps
never really
was.