I walk the gallery of things forgotten.
Brushing past the curved back of a maple chair,
sliding a withered hand over the smooth, worn surface of a wooden desk;
a desk holding an empty photo frame.
I trace the smoke, lines of birch wood.
My fingers led to grip an object…slim and red with enameled handle;
fanned bristles at one end.
I have lost the word.
A man I know, used one well…and used one often.
I cannot tell. Are the bristles damp to the touch?
Was it years ago he painted flowers for me,
or has he only just rinsed the paint…?
Even when I forget the name of ‘flower’,
will I remember how much I have loved them?
Will I be able to receive their healing fragrances,
even when I have forgotten how to act towards them?
I am afraid. Soon all the words will go,
like the face vanished from the photo frame.
The picture, removed. Now only rivets;
holding against the folding rest, of the frame.
I am afraid of when the frame will go.
Then, I feel a familiar hand on my shoulder.
Now a familiar voice.
It no longer matters, what photo, the rivets had pushed against;
what round imprints were made against a face,
for which I have lost the name.
Soon, the wooden desk will be reduced
to just a desk, and then something less;
something far from resembling a tree.
I am unafraid that the last things I shall know,
are tree, and rock, and water. And flower;
long after I have lost their names.
Long after the names have gone,
Will be a calming voice:
You are my rock and my guiding light.
By his words, he still paints pictures for me.
And when the last names go,
he will be someone who still remembers…
the path, to the fountain, at Hahn Circle.
How I love the movement of the trees,
how I love the fragrance of the flowers,
and the sound of water sweeping over rock.
I am beautiful.
And he, is my frame.