To Say My Story, Is To Tell Theirs

It’s the one mom still knows–
because Alzheimer’s can’t steal it.
She starts &finishes with gusto–
same cadence, same inflection,
same certain laugh. Every time.
About a minute or two after the punch
line, she loops back around with,
“You know our story, don’t you?”

Daddy didn’t like him. Thought
he’d amount to nothing. Mom went
&told the justice of the peace not
to marry us before we came walking in,
but that justice said he couldn’t
legally stop anyone from marrying
if they were of age, and we were,
and that made daddy hotter than hell

Comes knocking on my apartment door
telling your dad there are four ways
out of this town– take any one of them.
But plenty of times I didn’t listen.
How I convinced your Dad was something else.
He got clear out to Colorado before he
turned around, wondering how I dug my claws
into him– “You know that one, don’t you?”

for the Daily Post
& Real Toads


7 thoughts on “To Say My Story, Is To Tell Theirs

  1. That some memories are indelible fills me with a sense of relief. What are we without our defining moments?

  2. Yes, oh yes. The stories we keep are worth so much to us, to our hearts, to the endurance of our souls. One of my grandmothers had Alz — the last time I sat with her she spoke to me as I were the child she remembered – 20 years had past but for for her it was still 1988 and I needed to get my schoolwork done and help Mama in the kitchen. The tenderest of moments not forgotten. Thanks for sharing.

  3. Absolutely compelling. My mom tells me the same stories over and over. They’re not as sweet as this one. It’s so important to remember these stories of how you became you. Wonderful!

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