January 25, 2022

imprint

Snow, and my childhood returns for an afternoon—hot chocolate,
a radiator hissing from an overlay of wet mittens, rosy flushes
that look like fevers, and in the mudroom, boots crusted at the heels.
Outside, it looks like starting over, like the opening jingle of a Disney film,
cotton-ball clouds drifting in slow animation. But inside it is impossible
to return to that same place. Instead, I'm on a continuous loop amending
my former mistakes, trying not to repeat the slushy imprint of whatever mess
that came. There’s a sled I’m perpetually dragging, waiting for the right hill
to appear so that I can have my memory back. Behind me, where I never
think to look, are the new tracks I keep making as I go.