— Diane Lee Moomey
Butter passed, potatoes passed,
and peas; the roast, salad;
the talk— casting lines downstream
into the river we’ve named our past.
“I remember this,” and tell the tale.
What I tell —
its coinage, color and shape, tone
and time of happening —
has no importance. Consider it only one
of a thousand moments-of-family
played out in every place and time, of no importance
except that I‘ve remembered and brought it
shyly to our late-in-life table.
“No, I never did that.”
“She never did that.”
“You dreamed it.”
“Never. Oh, no no.”
I could doubt myself,
call myself forgetful, blurry of mind,
claim mistake and cast the recollection
back into the family river,
I do remember, it did happen, did.
I step back, silent,
hold that fragile droplet close —
I know you, I was there —
and guard it, as with open palm
I would guard a candle’s flame
from the gusts of unknowing winds .