with nothing to
regret, i wake up
to an old habit,
flipping through
old photographs.
and so i mourn.
it’s morning and
i’m not crying.
i call the doctor,
ready for my ap
pointment. i do
not have one yet,
but don’t i need
one? the line is
busy. i dial ag
ain. no humans.
looking at photos
of myself and of
others – i have
not seen these
in a while, sur
prised that i am
still in possession
of them – this has
me remembering.
do they possess
me? or i them?
perhaps i should
not look at photos
so very often. now
i should call mom,
i think. is she on
dialysis today? i
think so. i go back
to the photographs,
many of which are
not mine, they are
of someone else’s
family. i want to
somehow separate
the photographs of
the other family.
from the ones of
me and my family.
then i think about
the word family, de
cide that i must have
it all wrong. i do, of
course. have it all
wrong. what then
to do? go back to
the endless photos,
some of whom are
of me, others of
whom are of my
family and former
friends, and still
others are from
someone else’s
family. were
they mine
once? others
still are nothing
but unfamiliar
snapshots,
which, no matter
how hard i try to
scrutinize for clues
as to their origin,
try as i might, as
they say, i cannot
begin to rattle ev
en on singular
memory about
them. i begin
to feel quite
lost. or at a
loss. am i sob
bing? no. lost?
that must be it.
