Mulch for Memories

 
  
 Time
 does not behave
 now as it used to,
 or perhaps, just maybe
 from such slowing down
 its behaviour 
 is more noticeable.
  
 Bound in places,
 held in spaces
 what happens
 to spacetime,
 when space contracts,
 time constricts?
  
 Seeing no one,
 unless observed remotely,
 from windows walking past,
 or in virtual space 
 in real time – 
 What then is real?
 What is time?
 What is space?
 Or 
 Where is real?
 Where is time?
 Where is space?
  
 What have we become?
 Who are we becoming?
  
 Going nowhere beyond the shop,
 necessities seem more necessary,
 for they are the reason
 to leave one’s space for a time,
 venturing to other places
 masked and distanced.
  
 Unable to trust anyone,
 who knows when or whether
 a stranger or a friend
 carries the contagion,
 making us wary
 as in every moment life’s time
 for each individual
 crawls and scurries onward.
  
 What is lost of time’s trajectory,
 no less precious for its ephemerality,
 no less regretted for what feels like
 its wasting,
 differently experienced now
 slipping past day on day,
 hour by moment
 for a nearly a year gone forever?
  
 Shards, scraps, shreds
 of time tumble
 in free fall as
 autumn’s leaves
 landing silent and mostly unremarked
 forming mulch for memories.
  
   

My Twenty-One-Year-Old Self

My twenty-one-year-old self looks down on me,
watching from the wall across from my bed,
as I sleep and waken,
follows me around the room,
leaning out from her canvas home,
curious and enigmatic.



I wonder sometimes what she thinks
of the life I have made in the forty-six years
since she was painted,
a time and a life committed
by brush, oils and skill
to be a wedding present from my father,
when according to him at the time
I looked like everyone and no one,
too young with too little of life lived
to make my features have
the unique signature of self
only time can grant.
 
Sitting here with her looking down on me now,
on the anniversary of that marriage
which failed after a quarter century,
I wonder what will happen to her
when I am gone,
I who leave no descendants,
no one who would want a portrait of me;
but I shelve these musings
choosing instead to wonder
about the life I’d be living now
had I not changed my name,
not been divorced two times,
gone to university at eighteen
instead of thirty-five,
not answered the call to leave
the religion of my birth
as well at its country.
 
For I can see shadows of those other lives
lived surely in other places,
and perhaps on other planes,
from that which I inhabit now,
lives with descendants perhaps
to carry her forth along
with my genetics.
 
I look at her watching me
perceiving no judgement 
sensing no disappointment,
feeling no regret,
rather there is acceptance,
without resignation and the acknowledgement
life has its twists and turns,
that there are eddies and still pools
in the flow of time as well as
raging torrents pushing one onward,
for the trajectory of being is complex,
and the algebra of the heart
and the trigonometry of the soul
remain mysterious.
 
What I make of the life
I have created for myself
by the paths I have taken,
the doors I have either entered or closed,
the decisions and choices I have made,
whether with my heart or with my head,
whether wise or foolish,
each have led me here
to a place my twenty-one-year-old self
there and then could never have imagined,
where my sixty-seven-year-old self
here and now can have a silent conversation with her,
with that me, any time that I desire,
and in those moments find a sense
of continuity transcending there and then,
where place and time
no longer matter for in the flow
of being all are one.