Memory is a trickster, a flute, a ripple on the pond,

a world made of fairy dust and sunlight,

poking through leaves in dark woods.

Memory is a magician, with a bag full of tricks,

who knows how blind us, distract us,

and lure us,

into mystery and confusion.

Memory is a salesman who talks so quickly,

we are afraid to ask him what he means,

or said.

Memory is a lover, a seducer, she arouses us,

and pulls us to bed, and then,

to sleep.

Mother is a child,

need and hungry for milk.

A sister, who walks with us into the woods,

and calls us on the phone, and shares

our life with us.

Memory is a mother who comforts us,

sings us sweet songs, knows how to quiet us,

Memory is a rock, that rolls down the hill,

out of reach. We wait, in hope and dread,

for the echoes to reach us,

and tell us the truth,

about who we really are.