santos scribes

i remember how the late summer grasshoppers jumped like tight corn kernels in a hot oiled pan.

i remember how my teeth would squeak and sink into the lip of the styrofoam cup; the smell of the icy cold milk inside.

i remember the early september day our cellphones wouldn’t work and how we walked home together under a clear bluebird sky, sad and smiling at everyone we passed.

i remember his old red and silver bronco parked on the grass, how the truck’s large squared frame matched his size & stature- inside, ripped red seats and littered floors; cigarette ash and diet soda cans.

i remember the boxy waist-high record player spun The Oak Ridge Boys and Kenny & Dolly at Christmas time.

i remember as we grew, something about the obvious sadness of my home life made her feel better about the hidden sadness of her own. i remember the mornings we both knew it was white wine in her mother’s coffee cup and how we didn’t talk about that either.

i remember the chalk white walls and the thick rubber steps of the church’s basement stairwell, the matter-of-factness in the older boy’s words “you’re pretty, just as long as you don’t get fat like your sisters.”

i remember “anyone who wants to get to you is going to have to get through me first” and just how wrong he ended up being.

i remember the theme song to Dallas playing downstairs as i tossed and turned above.

i remember the first and only time i heard her swear. how we knew by then he wasn’t coming back and so at dinner that night when she slammed the mostly empty refrigerator door, we sort of understood her firm, hushed “damn it!”

i remember the feel of cold island sand on my tired, tanned feet.

i remember my whole body shook inside and my eyes bore holes in my cold, wringing hands as i said “it just feels like you don’t understand me” and how she sat up taller and was sure to look right through me when she said, “that’s not my fault.”

i remember dancing to brown-eyed girl in the rain, my hazel eyes shining.

i remember the man who walked his bike through our neighborhood telling stop signs to get a haircut and chanting “pawcatuck, connecticut.”

about this poem

inspired by joe brainard’s book “i remember” these are a few of the things i remember about my life. recalling memory is such a visceral & sensory experience for me, it took many drafts at writing each line here. this piece is called ‘monocle’ as these are my memories, personal to my experiences. i appreciate your reading my work and if you feel called to maybe send me a note about something you remember from your life. xo, s.