Poem: April 26, 2019

Personal Narrative

When you are a kid you don't
yet know what your story
will be, but you never tire
of the telling, reorganizing
the limited past to create new
meaning, like the time you
nearly died swimming in
the deep end of the pool
became the time you fooled
everyone into thinking you
were drowning. And the long,
blurry future becomes a
storyboard made of random
moments that manage to make
an impression- a teacher likes
your poem, a girl in overalls
holds your hand at school,
Quincy solves another mystery,
your grandfather laughs and
drinks and smokes cigars-
and suddenly a new reality,
or a plot twist, in the story
you want to tell about yourself.
Strange how some narrative
threads linger, while others
disappear until someone
at a reunion tells you a story
about yourself that feels
vaguely familiar, but with
details that have no anchor,
no pin on the bulletin board.
And looking back, it is your
past that blurs and seems
unlimited, and your future
that leaves little room (and
little need) for revision.