Memory is a tenuous thing
flickering glimpses, blue
and white, like ancient,
decomposing 16 mm film.
Happiness escapes
me there, where faces
are vague and yesterday
seems to come tied
up in ribbons of pain.
Happiness? I look for it instead
in today, where memory
is something I can still
touch, still rely on.
I find it in the smiles
of new friends, the hope
blossoming inside.
My happiest memories
have no place in the
past; they are those
I have yet to create.
by Ellen Hopkins (excerpt from Impulse)
and white, like ancient,
decomposing 16 mm film.
Happiness escapes
me there, where faces
are vague and yesterday
seems to come tied
up in ribbons of pain.
Happiness? I look for it instead
in today, where memory
is something I can still
touch, still rely on.
I find it in the smiles
of new friends, the hope
blossoming inside.
My happiest memories
have no place in the
past; they are those
I have yet to create.
by Ellen Hopkins (excerpt from Impulse)