As each day bleeds into the next
I hang my memories out to dry
and starch and press the creases flat,
smoothing over their crumpled edges.
This laundry work is never finished
since each day breaks as the one before -
thoughts sort themselves by lights and darks
and with a little bleach they fade and vanish.
Sometimes the colors run and bleed
and rose-tainted memories emerge,
like the splotchy salmon pink resulting
from a red bra hiding in the light load.
Over time, the crispness fades,
the newness of past experiences is lost
and the fabric starts to wear a little thin,
as all of its bright colors fade to gray.
But many of my memories vanish
like socks in an electric dryer,
some disappear entirely in the wash
while others are rediscovered in other forms.
This embellishing and omitting of my past
causes me to ponder the nature of memory -
just how much of what I remember
is true to what actually passed?