Tuni Deignan

I can’t not remember you, right? The relearning of our a, b, c’s, the secrets you kept so cleverly inside, or

fearfully, 

pocketed, in your purse.

There was that small perfect photo keeper shaped like a deco fag case, gold-clip fasten, bound in cherry red leather,

Smooth.

Cellophane slips with your dear ones shining through, 2 x 3 black and white mini-friezes, childhood besties Judith & Jeaner in cashmere and lipstick, Mary standing darkly against your father’s Roadster in the driveway, her dress long to her shins, her arms crossed over her chest.

Each of us four kids in all sorts of stages, infants bundled, one nursery aged and banged over eyebrows; Jordan, smart and turtlenecked, pants with pleats, wide-eyed, timid smile.

You tucked us there like a love story amongst the tissues, the compact, the billfold. We were always only an unclip away.

I never thought about that. So close. To your heart.

“can I please,”

“may I” you interrupted,

“may I please look at the photo book mom?”

So close. To your heart. You loved us; the red leather devotion.

I can’t not remember, I choose you differently now, refreshed, delicate, private, afraid,

Precious.