artwork: ralph murre
Mnemonic
by
Wilda W. Morris
Beginning
with a line and a half from Li-Young Lee*
I
was cold once. So my father took off his blue sweater.
He
wrapped me in it.
I
slid my short arms into the long sleeves.
Father
leaned down and buttoned each button.
I
was five years old
and
the sweater had five buttons.
“Carry
me,” I begged. “I’m tired.” Father picked me up.
As
my arms flew around his neck, the sleeves flapped like blue wings.
Now
I was warm
but
Father was cold.
He
carried me seven blocks and was worn out
when
he climbed the steps to our door.
This
is how I remember it.
But
when I was five I was never wrapped
in
a warm sweater with buttons down the front.
And
I had no father.
~
first published in After Hours
