Remembering Monterey

 

I remember a very wet place. Cold

fingers and toes on cold floors. Doors open

on rooms gold-bright. Outside: always twilight.

I remember waking in company,

laughing, but taking seriously the

games in red pajamas or high drama

we performed—stormed the air ship, rescued the

princess. We were tigers and bears and

unicorns; we were kittens, we were foxes,

we were kids. And on Christmas Eve we were

too giddy to wait; and later, thigh deep

in wrapping paper, we capered like calves

in bangled leaves. And much later the leaves

scattered. And we sit sundered. And remember.

 

Copyright © 2002-08 Abigail Hilton