I remember:

there was a day a sparrow fell

from the sky and landed

at my feet.

 

“Dead” my mother announced,

pulling me closer

and I looked up at her as if toward a building

from the ground.

 

Her face eclipsed the sun.

My hand was small in hers.

“Don’t touch it” she said.

 

I didn’t have to.

It had fallen from inside me.

I looked back only once.

 

I knew I would remember.

I could not forget

(though it was gone,

I had it with me).

 

I remember:

My grandmother has many children

Not just her own, for she has raised

countless others

so I have many, many cousins

 

as I grow

in a cozy little apartment

with frayed couches

and chicken pepper pasta

play checkers with chess pieces

(and she tells me I can’t just cheat and go back a turn

just because I’m losing

but she lets me do it anyway).

 

sometimes her children visit

and I think about how large she has made her family

how gentle hands and a soft voice

can create a entire world

how just the memory

creates this world for me.

 

When there is nothing else,

this I will always have.

This I will always remember.

 

I remember:

A long time ago,

you told me the story

of how you got that scar on your cheek.

 

I remember

your voice grew low

and your tone solemn and somber

your eyes dropped

and your reluctant gaze peeked out

from behind dark eyelashes

to tell a tale

from deep within yourself.

 

It was a grave story

personal and delicate

and painful for you

to take a piece of it

to hand it to someone else.

 

Though you are gone,

This piece I have always.

 

These are pieces of others

Pieces of me

mingled

that I carry.

 

These and a million more:

If they are all I have,

They are all I need.