Memory, like a poem, is a made thing. A mixtape of summers past. Blurred Polaroids pinned to a corkboard. Re-captioned in different ink.
My wicker nightstand time-capsules a long ago self: shiny-handled pocket comb, cherry lip smacker, mood ring. A knotted band—faded and frayed.
Gianna and I braided friendship bracelets and tied them on each other. Wrists thick with candy-colored zig zags. We wore them until they fell off.
We pedaled our Schwinn Sting Rays in saltwater sandals. Ate dinner outside. Dad picked and peeled figs for dessert. A glass of red before him and years
still to live. Before I understood death in the ways I now understand death. His smoke rings swirled vanished into night. Memories grow
teeth when I give them words. Break me into the lines of this poem. Catch on knots. Shape from the leavings something new. Something true.
Luisa Giulianetti is a Bay Area writer. Her debut collection, Agrodolce, (Bordighera Press) was released last fall. Her work appears in CALYX, Rattle, and River Heron Review. Luisa teaches and directs programs at UC Berkeley. She enjoys cooking, hiking, and exploring the expansive beauty of the place she calls home.
