Every memory fettered,
etched in magnetic ones and zeroes,
copied, transmitted, and saved, always saved,
in libraries, shelves spiralling skyward
from mega to giga to tera.
Sun-flecked leaves on the first day of school,
initial toddling steps em-pegged forever,
jay-pegged wedding kisses,
until teardrops freeze mid-trickle
after the divorce is final, or the doctor announces “she’s gone.”
No generation ever had such a repository.
There were paper trails before, yes,
but paper fades,
yellows,
dries,
then burns,
the ashes floating away like the name of your first-grade teacher.
The oldest recollection, some liars insist,
is the blinding crimson of birth;
others more sincere recall a fall, the zoo,
grandma’s rose perfume as you squirm on her knee.
But the deepest recollection is the recurring sight
of house, fence, telephone pole evaporating in
a jostled blur into the vanishing point.
All while swaddled firmly—safety first—strapped into
the tunnelvision of a rear-facing car seat.
Instant nostalgia comes standard in a life lived in reverse,
clinging to yesterday.
They’re safe but still sorry,
seeing home drifting helplessly, miles beyond our reach.