Memory Box
Some of my earliest memories are memories with you,
how you would bring me along to pick up Rita from school.
I remember how it would take my whole fist just to
hold onto one of your fingers, your hands were that big.
When I was six years old I went on a school trip to the beach,
I put my glasses inside my lunch bag for safe keeping
but it turned out that my teacher didn’t know the difference
between a banana and a banana skin and threw my bag in the bin.
I remember, coming home with an apologetic note from school
in one hand and a fusion of blurry vision and migraine in the other,
after hearing my misfortune, you silently mounted your rusty old bike
and you were gone, my knight on a mission riding through the night.
The next morning sure enough, there they were on the coffee table
my little red glasses, like there were never gone. You mumbled something
about how I mustn’t have looked hard enough, they weren’t hard to find,
but I saw it, that smug little smile hiding behind your newspaper.
That was the moment that taught me unconditional love,
I still have those glasses in a memory box and I’ll always remember.
