by Alan Stacy
One by one the old photo albums go into the plastic storage box. Carefully padded and preserved, memories archived away. One remains. Wedding album. 59 years gone by. Dad dashing in a hat and long coat, eagerly escorting Mom in fur trimmed wool into the wedding night chill. Two mothers, husbandless themselves, peer from the porch darkness, happy to see them happy, sad to see them go.
The wedding album, laid open on a table, I walk by all day, to and from, office to kitchen. Every pass turns a page. A new old image. My parents as they were before me, before my brother. The pages are full of the beginning of lives together, their hopes, their dreams.
I walk past the album, walking through the years. Two, four, eleven times, turning pages. They stare out of the album at each pass. Where are you going? What are you doing? Can we help? Are you happy? How are the children? They ask questions with every pass, every page. Their eyes follow my restless pacing. Turning pages, turning years. The last page — empty.
Morning fog droplets
Smear the ink
Your final letter
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Old question:
Can poets write prose; prose writers, poetry?
Basho did it long ago with haibun and Stacy reaffirms.
Yes!
Amicus poeticae,
Neal Whitman