Of Curled Waves

Memory, famously, erodes.
What were you doing when you were

Four? Four years younger than today?
A lot remains, but it’s well smeared,

And, if you get down to brass tacks,
Full of holes. It was never much,

Compared what you really lived
In that body of Theseus.

How unfair to call meaningful
Mnemonics sentimental things.

They’re anchors, and they’re wailing walls.
Every time you pass the painting

You bought before your child was born,
You tuck a note for memory,

Rehearse your associations.
If that painting were burned or lost,

You would be tempted to explain
Your sorrow over worthlessness

As mere sentimental value,
But don’t. It’s not the sentiment

You lost. It’s the piece of your mind
That painting, that object, anchored,

Now floating over the ocean
Of curled waves that never roll back.