The Daughter

Today I lived my life with ghosts Both living and dead Your face, their face Slipped through my fingers and fell to the floor Hundreds of pictures of you and them Hundreds of moments and moments and moments Too numerous and caught in that web of time Dangled on a cobweb so thin, so fine It could break but does not snap And lasts and lasts And holds and holds All there, suspended in that instant Before falling to the floor, Or in the box of memories. To be kept. So where do you reside, in the bin or the box? Where do you live for future’s worth? Will you be cut adrift or salvaged in those stepping stones to the past. And yet, she still picked up those photos of you Pained and dulled Still confused and stabbed by what has happened over time. She saw your face and paused. Reflected. She then gently collected up those images of you and me And saved them in the box One day for all to see in times to come. She decided not to put you in the bin. Unlike me. She rescued her childhood. Put down a marker in the sand And said stop to the sea To the waves and waves That break over time and pain Saved you from the blankless pile of Venice and Florence And Christmas and beaches and Barbies and laughter And with a simple dignity She gave you back some worth.