I wrote this sweet poem just now. Fast and easy.

Just a spellcheck and one read aloud to see if it flowed.

I worry that I didn’t include all the most important memories, but I know I can do this again on another day, and shuffle the memories like a deck of cards.

I’m telling you this because I want you to know it’s ok not to get every important thing into every little poem.

It’s ok to let sad memories bump up against the silly.

For this morning, on September 11th, I’m thankful to have a chance to remember and put words on the page.



It’s funny

How some things

Never leave

The corner of your heart-


Like watching three women -

Mom, Grandma, and Great Grandma,

All shoulder to shoulder,

Eating oranges over the kitchen sink.


How it felt to fall asleep in the car

On long road trips

With my head against a pillow

Leaning against a cold window

As rough and tumble landscape

Rushed by like a river.


A first kiss that was obligatory

And not at all like I imagined.


Hearing my grandpa come into a room

And yell, “Where’s my Laurie?  There’s my Laurie!”

He never spelled my name right,

But that’s OK.


Listening to the soundtrack

Of A Star is Born over and over again.

Singing every Streisand song with a brush microphone

In my best friend’s living room.


Hearing a wolf howl from a Yellowstone ridge,

But feeling it deep in my gut.


Hiking with two girlfriends,

But thinking about my true love

Back home,

And for the first time,

Understanding how it felt to be content.


Stopping for gas in Mojave,

Buying frozen solid bon bons,

Then, when we were on the road again,

Throwing them out the window,

One by one,

For no reason at all

Except maybe to laugh

And scream with delight.

Like getting to school early

one September morning,

wanting to get to the copy machine

before all the other teachers,

and hearing,

“We’re under attack.”


Some things

Lie loosely buried

Under stacks of years,

And months and weeks,

And days and minutes,

And never

Go away.


            Written under the influence of Eileen Spinelli’s poem, “Memories.”

            Bolded lines are borrowed from her poem.

Always writing and remembering,