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my walls are hung with pictures old and used
each one beautiful and different.
I collect them at garage sales, at antique fairs.
some are pages out of books long disintegrated,
some anonymous family relics disinherited.
my walls are decorated with someone else's memories,
dusty and two-dimensional, in rickety frames.
my own history is in the custody of a cardboard box
in the attic
photographs filed, forgotten. souvenirs of
births and marriages and deaths.
scrapbooks filled with the fancies of my mother's mother:
bible quotes, calling cards, and every item about president
eisenhower that ever appeared in the saginaw news.
on a sunday every year or so I spend an evening in the
attic, getting splinters.
2 responses total.
The piece you have entered strikes me, for it portrays what some of us seem to have difficulty putting into words sometimes; the meaning and value of memories.
you seem to have that clearness of diction. And to the last detail. Yes, It is a good piece of work and my appreciation goes out to you. Chao..
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