I wrote this poem for a Jazz Vespers service we had a few weeks ago, but it's relevant for right now, I feel.
I can be sentimental.
Holding moments in my fist
knowing even now that I am crushing
them into a dust of fuzzy memories,
inside jokes that no one else gets, vague grins
and murmurs of “those were the days”.
I’ll wake up one day
and wonder whatever happened
to the person who I am sitting beside today,
talking about hopes and dreams, or telling jokes,
or explaining the virtues
of her favorite coffee shop.
And I wish there was a way to hang on to
the beauty of now, collect
moments like seashells, stored in a
wooden box on top of my dresser.
Somewhere safe where they
won’t disappear. With all the other
things that meant something to me once.