by Romina Ramos
Some of my earlier memories
are of you, bringing me along
to pick up Rita from school.
It took my whole fist just to
hold on to one of your fingers.
Or being six years old, at the beach
on a school trip, my glasses safe
inside my snack bag while I swam,
my supermarket plastic mistaken
for rubbish and thrown away.
Arriving home empty eyed, a letter
of apology by my teacher weighing
me down. You, angry as usual.
Questioning whether I looked blindly
enough, leaving on your rusty motorbike.
The next morning before the cock
had sung, and both eyes had opened
my little red glasses on the coffee table.
As round and bright as the smile
peeking from behind your newspaper.
You taught me unconditional love.
I still have those small glasses
in a memory box. They remind me
that sometimes love is rummaging
through industrial bins at night.
Note: this is a new edit of an old poem, which has been previously published on this blog in its various versions.