A memory.I often wonderif it’s genuine—truly mineorfabricated.Plantedlike a tiny beanpokedinto a Styrofoam cupfull of loam.How it’s fortifiedreinforcedfrom storiesrecited ‘round the dinner tableat Thanksgiving.The old oneslaughinguntil wine spittleson what remains of a turkey leg.And a little girl—the one living inside metries to recollectrememberamusing a roomful of grown-upslong, long ago.No snapshot.No triggering aroma.No synapse whatsoeverto reclaim what’s lost—or perhapsnever reallywas. Continue reading Remember…that one time…at your… by Shawn Aveningo-Sanders