“There comes a passing.”
by Gemma Rowe
That is what was said to him
In one of his earliest memories.
Those early memories that feel fuzzy,
That are immensely far away.
That roll around in the corners of your mind as colorful marbles.
Spinning and clunking in the background
Until an unexpected gust draws them closer.
The heat, that warm summer heat
That lifts everything inside you up,
With sharp, cool gusts and dry breaths.
That is what this marble brought him.
The knobbing, yellowish grass,
This is what this marble made him feel.
The coarse, sharp tips of death-stained growth.
When the moonlight threaded through gaps in his window shades,
He wished he could collect these marbles,
Line them up in neat rows.
He’d categorize their shape, color, and size,
Roll them around in his empty palms
memorize their weight and their feel on his skin.
This, of course, is impossible,
And he’s left with only vague,
Distinct impressions that roll back down.
He cherishes each one regardless,
He curls the corners of his mouth
And lets those marbles pierce his attention.
He spins them around his conscious mind,
Listening to the sounds they make,
The sensations they bring.
When his hands begin to shake
When the surface of his mind bends
And twists under the pressure of time,
He hopes his marbles will have stayed.
He hopes he will grasp them completely.
He knows there will come a passing.
