|Image by Francesca Woodman|
A past so long hidden
she considered it gone
Memories covered with layers of nacre
hiding grit beyond her reach.
The conch whispered of beaches walked
shells she must have collected.
in a basket in her bathroom.
She would stare at them stepping from the shower
Pick up each tulip shell and Scotch bonnet
as the haze swirled around her
her fingers remembered what her mind could not.
Friends would speak of the time before
as if all it took were words
to re-install the past into her life
Give her days roots.
She gave up
accepted that life began the day after
In her struggle to get on with living
The past was just an accessory.
All the pretty shells
were but talismen of a youth
She did not remember
Did not need.
Clutching the conch
toting the basket she tripped
shattered all the pretty shells
over the patio.
Between the fragments
glimpses of a past
she did not want to remember