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