Family Reunion

— 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.

“Oh no.”

  “No, I never did that.”

    “She never did that.”

      “You dreamed it.”

        “Never. Oh, no no.”

 

Well.
I could doubt myself,
call myself forgetful, blurry of mind,
claim mistake and cast the recollection
back into the family river,
but

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 .

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