Photo Album
By Allen Forrest
It sits on a shelf, all by itself,
and contains too much for one to comprehend,
too much to experience at once,
too much to feel, it can overwhelm you.
So I take it slow, open it slowly,
the photo album.
Lives, people, yes memories,
the gates open as the pages turn and a flood
of faces, moments, expressions, places, things,
they come at you for good or bad.
I see my mother and father, young, vibrant.
It feels good to see them,
yet hurts so much, their memory, their absence.
I see a birthday party, with a cake and kids all around a table,
we smile, having such a great time,
the cake is chocolate, candles burn and are blown out.
My grandmother visits and we go to a trout farm.
I love this trout farm, it has pools full of trout.
And we rent poles and fish and we catch fish.
I see my father helping me bait a hook.
How serious I look concentrating, my whole body involved.
I love this time, so simple, far away, and did it really happen?
Did it?
Yes, I say, why just look at the photo,
there it is, what more proof do you need?
Sitting on a pony at the zoo or the train ride around the park,
standing by the falls, the water pours down,
a thundering roar behind my mother and I.
Playing the cello, dressed up as a hobo for Halloween,
Mother poses at Christmas with her lovely Poinsettia plant,
Father plays his song on guitar, my guinea pig sleeps in my lap.
Yes, it really happened, yes it's right here in the photo album.