Flashing Memories

I remember memories of my past in brief seconds-

Fleeting like the grand flash of a firework

And I watch them trickle away just the same.

I remember papa asking to help plant his garden

He made a perfect little hole in the ground

And I packed it with green pepper seeds, covered it with dirt.

It stops.

I remember Elaine and me; barefoot in my grandma’s kitchen

Flipping pancakes with a plastic spatula

Halfway through belting out Sweet Caroline

It stops.

I remember watching documentaries with my dad

Stupid things about snakes and Noah’s ark

And when they’re explaining the mechanics of poisonous fangs

It stops.

I remember my roommates yelling at me, again

As we stand in the puddle of our flooded basement

And when I open my mouth to respond

It stops.

I remember getting drunk with Gunnar in our apartment

His friend so flexible with his fake ID

And when I go to give him a whiskey-laced kiss

It stops.

I remember Water Street, Egret Court, Pine Street, Sunset Trail, Tripp Street

My grandparents, parents, friends and husband

 Each place filled with those brief, flashing moments.