“You have a new memory”, my computer alerts me,
with its iPhoto pinwheel that indicates it has
compiled a collection. Irony bubbles.
It is good to know, computer,
that you have taken charge
of my memory storage and cataloging.
But some things you must know,
and by your nature, cannot know.
Photos are memory packages,
boxes made of soaked cardboard,
Boxes dredged from the river of our lives.
They contain what we do not want, or broken shards
of something we once wanted, or nothing.
We hold no photos in our heads.
Instead, pieces of moving candids,
charged with understanding, hindsight.
many quiet moments too outwardly insignificant
to warrant any kind of countdown.
The river stops for no man, is compiled by no computer.
The moments of our lives blur together;
we are only grasping at debris.
The flowing, not the sopping brown paper,
defines the nature of our memories.
Perhaps this poem will not age well.
Perhaps my children will giggle at the word iPhoto.
An expired word, strange on the tongue,
in my children’s time of ripening.
I will have many more memories, then.
But I will not have you, computer.
“you have a new memory”, you alert me, with your iphoto pinwheel that indicates you have compiled a collection.
Irony bubbles in my chest. I want to laugh.
It is good to know, computer, that you have taken charge of memory storage and cataloging for me.
But there are some things you need to know, and by nature, cannot know.
Photos are not memories, but memory packages, and they are weak ones at that. They contain what we do not remember at their worst, and at their best, can only remind us of what we do remember. We cannot snapshot ever moment of our lives to be compiled by you, computer. Most memories are formed around the flowing river of our own lives, and this flowing is what defines a memory. The memories we contain are often of quiet moments too outwardly insignificant to warrant any kind of “one two three, smile”. Our minds are filled with pieces of moving candids, charged with understanding.
Mausoleums of our minds.
Amanda R. D. Turner is a High School ESL teacher who lives in a tiny house with her husband and her mini dachshund. She collects and hoards good poems like unusual buttons or old coins, and she also secretly writes her own. They are usually terrible. Sharing is a big step for her.