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A Memory
By Sy Roth


It didn’t come in like an invading horde of Mongols astride their horses.
It came like a Siren whispering a sweet song, blowing soft winds in my ear.

The old woman sat on her frayed settee, her head resting on her Macassar
Grey hair splayed sensuously across it, teary eyes turned dreamily toward me.

The old trunk, her trunk, life’s collection before her 
A throne of memories, and my invitation to bore into her life.

It gave a creaking welcome as I did her gnarled-fingers beckoning me to open it.
They framed a permission, a V for some victory that danced in her head.

I searched her glacial eyes for certitude
And she nodded approval, chin jerking forward for affirmation.

With some trepidation, the old trunk beckoned me to explore.
Its creaking lid gave a diffused meow in preparation for my exploration.

A malodorous drift of the ancient met this young mariner.
It came on a charging chariot to greet me.

The inside, Kodak moment, welcomed me
And my hands fluttered excitedly to dive into this ocean of memorabilia.

A look at the old Dame and her fingers fluttering at me-- 
“Continue,” she cried for no one had explored her depths in an eon.

The sepia-colored photos of the ancients greeted me with their austere looks,
Bundled letters wrapped in a pink organdy, the flotsam and jetsam of life, unread,

The uncultured pearls that I draped around my neck,
The cameos in profile of a youthful, chaste being,

The trinkets that marked the progress of life’s cycles.
This spelunker of this being caught in this moment 

Held her life’s Morse code without great tenderness
Only an acknowledgement from the grand dame who found a joy in my exploration.

A soft smile marked in a moment of a callow youth 
Who seized the moment to recognize that there was a life.
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