As I look in the mirror,
I realize I don’t remember the first word I spoke as a baby,
Rummaging through the bones of my past,
Groping in the dark,
I still can’t find the word.
Memory is a strange thing isn’t it?
It’s like carrying the weight of my past in my mind,
Storing and piling its pieces,
Throwing some away to have space for more,
Some I have kept for long,
Like the taste of my grandmother’s mutton pie,
How it melted on my tongue,
How it felt on my taste buds,
The nibbling bites I took,
And how it made me full,
But still I asked for more.
In the mirror, I wonder if
That’s my true reflection,
As I reflect on my past, I wonder
If my memories are my honest reflections.