One Minute Memory

Between the ordinary and the ornate
in an unloved, lidless tin box
countless, fading, tired and clichéd cards
untroubled his passing thumb until
a working girl captured
in sepia scarf and single pocket apron
sparked a one minute memory of her
before her hair turned,
before she became a photograph.

He remembered her
not in mantelpiece Sunday reverence
served with sweet tea and hushed tones
but how she was once young
before her smile began to fray
under the weight of a life spent giving
and the need for a white, washed front door step;
he remembered her last appearance
in and out of Chapel,
hands bleached so close to the bone,
her resting clothes paler than her flesh.

© D. Archer. September 2012

2 thoughts on “One Minute Memory

    • Thanks for the comment, I remember my grandmother’s obsession with the cleanliness of her front doorstep, it was a strange sense of pride she had in her appearance and definitely a generational thing. Strange what we remember about people at odd moments.

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