Remember That One Perfect Afternoon?

The preternaturally aware

Adolescent sits in the sun

On the floating dock on clear lake

And sighs, I know I’m not going

To remember this. I hate that.

She’s only turning twelve this year,

But she sees how memory works,

Hears her juvenile amnesia

In the stories of her parents

Despite the myriad pictures

Of exact moments of her life—

Perhaps more acutely for them.

You can’t tell her no. You know well

Her mind will treat these gilded days

Of summer as a golden haze

Flecked with a few vivid islands

Of episodes worn like beach glass,

Smooth and cloudy from retelling.