As the Pram Rolls Full Circle

Lately I have meditated on clarity in an effort to conjure specific memories. I have purposefully attempted to attach sights, sounds and smells to each so that they become vivid.

The result of one such attempt is a poem that I wrote and posted this weekend called The Pram. For illustration, I added a stock photo that looked as similar to the one I recalled as I could find.

I received an email from my mom (who read the poem) with this photo attached.

Snoozing on the porch

This is me in the pram.

I remembered.

Mind blown.

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Just for a Moment

Just for a moment
I saw you in dreams
Alive and awake
Breathing and laughing

Regaling me with stories of your escapades
Of baseball
And spelunking
Getting covered in mud
On your dirt bike

That you had to sell
To accelerate
Toward a new life
Just for a moment

Just for a moment
I watched your videos in my dreams
Reel to reel projected
An epic featuring the two-man wheel
Giggling its way across the sand
The tale of countless hours spent with friends
Building a plywood jump
That launched only laughter
Collapse and more laughter

Just for a moment
I saw you in those goofy blue
Max Headroom glasses
Holding a mouse
The white rapper
Vested and invested
Charisma so powerful
Attracting moths to a flame
Just for a moment

Oh, that laugh
So expectant that somehow
You’d step from behind the veil
Cameras pointed
Audience aghast
It was only a dream

Just for a moment

Earliest Memory

What’s your earliest memory? Dig deep. Maybe you cannot.

Sounds (music in particular), scents or tactile encounters sometimes trigger memories long since squirreled away of places or events. Browsing a flea market, I leaned in to look closely at an old pram. A whiff brought this memory from my infancy or earliest toddlerhood. I can be sure of my age because the pram in our family could only have held a child not much more than a year old due to its relative size.

photo courtesy: Pretty Willow Prop Hire
photo courtesy: Pretty Willow Prop Hire

The scent of white plastic and age drifts in the summer air unleashing a rush of pictures.

I lie on my back inside my pram looking upwards, its half shield shading my blue eyes from the bright sunshine. The thin mattress and squeaky metal springs that support the frame beneath me cushion the ride. I reach a hand to touch the white mosquito netting that protects me from insects and makes me feel safe. My eyelids fight to stay open, but the motion relaxes me.

While only fleeting, the memory remains steadfast—resurrected from the archives if only for a moment.