Maybe all we want is to be 10 or 12 or 20 again

Memories flash teasingly before me in t he gloomy predawn:

That boy I had a crush on– what was his name?

Danny, Steve. No Richard. His name was Richard.

When I was 10 and he was 12.

Memories, like my life passing before me– why?

Certainly, I am not dying, just getting older on this

dismal September morning

Or, am I just savoring the moments that passed too quickly 

That passed uncelebrated, gone now and lingering like ghosts

Because I didn’t pay them enough attention when we were young

Recollection is bittersweet and callow

As naive as the youth it obeys in remembrance,

Reminiscences so demanding and so unconcerned with 

the needs of the rememberer

Maybe all we want when we reminisce is to be 10 or 12 or 20 again



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