When I draw upon my memories
they come  first as pictures —
the sights of my recalling.


But then I can’t neglect the sounds.
I hear the water lapping on the shore —
the old Evinrude out board motor
that came to life when I pulled the rope
I’d wrapped around its head
and overwhelmed  all other sounds around.


I hear my father’s voice sometimes
when I’m dealing with ordinary matters
as he seems to enter me
from where he was, once upon a time.
And only rarely do I
conjure up my mother’s voice
that last I heard when this century was new.


Then there are also scents
that have been known to stimulate a memory
and since my nose no longer smells
I’m fortunate that I can resurrect aromas.


In my old age I find I’ve lost some memories
and though there’s more I should recall
my recollections tend to flee
beneath the white haired head of mine.


If I should see you in the morning
I might wonder who you are
and I might struggle in my mind to find
out who you were when last we met.

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