The Memory of a Room
Bronze, the room was. I think - memory is a tremulous place
Everchanging
Fickle
Brittle
Lots of things change in this memory
My bed
Where was it? By the window?
Did I once gaze out to see the acres
And acres
Of horses
How many horses?
Has that morphed too?
What did they do? How far from the window was it again? Did the little girl that I once was, see them closely? Were they close enough to see me?
What colors? Brown? White? Were there any Painted horses?
I think I once loved Painted horses
No no the memory is wrong
I hated horses
They frightened me
Would they step on me? My feet? I walked barefoot then. I didn’t want them to step on my feet.
Or was the bed closer to the back of the room?
So I could have more room for my dollhouse? I remember having one of those. Or two. Or three. I wish I could remember the tenants that lived there. The fancy lives they led. No horses to threaten their feet.
The memory
has faded
I didn’t mind.
How many memories can I really call my own? How much of me has changed from those memories? I am a new person now.
I am not scared of horses and I do not have a dollhouse full of rich tenants.
Now I just have a memory that slips from me
Now
And now
Again
It slips like the wind on a day that you can’t catch it
Which is just a regular day
The bedroom that a stranger that may have been me once had.
With a bed that moves
And horses and tenants that change
