Internet, it’s been too long…I think more than two months. But oh, it’s been good.
So I won’t make promises. I won’t say I’ll write tomorrow or a month from now. My only promise: I will write. An occasional postcard in the form of a poem. Like today, sent from the 90s.
8 7 95
I picked up a photograph—
the already ancient kind—
processed when sharing
meant showing you an album
in the form of a book.
Time stamp: 8 7 95.
One look: amazingly content.
And I stood,
hand up to ear, elbows bent
like teapot handles.
No fear of the future,
only upside down roller coasters
at Disney World.
I was 7.
My arm cocked, model-style
like the older girls in my mom’s magazines
yet to be a teen
or even 8 (there were still 3 months til then).
But I knew more then
than I know now.
I knew I’d be older
I knew I was happy
I knew how to erase words
on a typewriter.
(“What the hell’s a typewriter?”)
And now I’m decked with unsure:
family,
job,
car,
bills,
future.
Forced mature,
and several years
past seven.
But when I turned eleven,
then fifteen
then twenty…
I did learn plenty.
A picture worth more than a thousand words.
More like a zillion minutes
since August 7, 1995.
