She intrudes and is sorry
But this memories escape
Like steam from the pot
She cannot pull the wisps back
Into this unfamiliar form.
She speaks and is sorry
But this memory’s taking shape
And this is her only shot
To find redemption here
To quell her inner storm
She tells me how very sorry she is
For snapping at her silly kids
The wisps of memory are vivid now
Louder, more vivid than her knitted brow
I hear the snapping from long ago
Before me, memory’s actors perform.
“Put that animal back in its cage!”
And the hurt shame in children’s faces
This is the poison in her soul
And she is sorry, so very sorry
Please tell my kids I’m
sorry.
Last night I was visited by a strange woman. It was pretty strange. She was a shorter woman in her mid-thirties, blonde-haired, average weight if a little round, with dark eyes and an aqualine nose. She came to me as I was falling asleep and begged me a favor that I have no idea how to perform, but it filled me with emotion, and I was inspired to write for her.
