Welcome back to Saturday! I’ve got another poem for you. This one is all about memories and nostalgia, something that’s hopefully relatable. Enjoy!
***
The Memories I Touch
My hands flex, stretch, ache
to reach an octave.
First, only five keys within my reach,
then eventually six.
Seven. And suddenly,
they touch the ninth key, nine out of eight.
My hands grip the back of
Papa’s shirt as I bear-hug him.
I deeply inhale the scent of cigarettes,
but I don’t know it yet.
To me,
it just smells like him.
My hands explore the poofy curls
of Mama’s gold-blond hair.
I touch streaks of grey, she tells me to ignore them.
I touch the one lock of grey in my brown hair,
and I secretly think,
Grey looks good on you.
My hands roll marbles down an uneven countertop,
tiny toys make a funny, whirring sound.
My brother and I race them,
mine falls off half-way through. Clank.
My brother picks it up, offers it to me,
“Let’s go again.”
My hands prick themselves with needles
as I sew dresses for Barbie dolls.
My sister and I hold them and sew stories
in which girls find superpowers.
In our hands, we hold wishes,
not knowing they are futures.
My hands hold my baby brother,
his warm, curled fingers stretching
to hold my pinkie.
He will recite Latin: nauta, a sailor.
But for now, it feels like I’m holding
my own heart.
Rachel Sandell 