In the telling, it lost its memoryness
and became a story,
partly because no one believed me.
Sitting at the kitchen table one day
I said (not in these words) that I remembered
being wheeled down a hospital corridor,
a man in blue-green scrubs and surgical mask
glancing down at me,
white walls and white ceiling rushing past.
I tried to explain that I had no thought,
no words floating through my head, no labels,
just pure awareness.
They laughed,
said I couldn’t possibly remember.
So in anger I began to embellish—
claimed the doctor had muddy hands!
(because when you are seven and frustrated
that’s the kind of thing you say).
And they laughed harder.
And now I can’t recapture the feeling,
can’t see the doctor without the ridiculous mud.
What if someone had said instead:
How wonderful that you remember
your first day of life.
~~~
Thanks to We Write Poems for the prompt: Write a poem about your very first (or maybe two) memories of being in this life. You can read other poems on this theme here.
