By Justine C. Tajonera
Either way, it's astonishing
of how much of life
we forget
and how much
we remember.
Watching my son
learn how to count
and say his alphabet,
I think of those countless
moments that have
slipped by us,
irrecoverable.
At the end of it all,
all we remember
is what makes
a life.
There are only a few
precious things
in that box.
The things that I've
promised
persist,
day in,
day out.
Could it be that our lives
are the promises
we make?
I stretch out
my hand to you,
sorry for all the things
that I have
not done,
happy that you
are
there
at all.
(Nov. 14, 2009)
Image from www.ccci.org
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