Remembered
There is a spot of land at some corner of the world that may remember me. I’m hopeful. Oh it’s compressed and rearranged and slightly congealed with old engine oil or lizard dust, I don’t know, but I think I could find a few grains of sand or a fingernail of loam from that day. Well, there were many days. It used to fill my fingernails, that soil under the grape vine next to the young deodar cedar that Dad planted I don’t know when. But I think the grains of sand will remember; they would tell, if I could just stop and listen, with my finger tips.