I Am Grateful

for the pieces of memory of being six and seven and eight  

for the memory of a high mountain pass where baby goats chewed on the ribbons in my pigtails. 

for the memory of Christmas trees with real candles on them. 

for the memory of sledding down a mountain road on my own sled that had my name burnt into one of the wooden slats

for the memory of eating mounds of fresh-caught shrimp most Saturdays for lunch 

for the memory of my friend Dinky finding me by following my crutch tracks and how wonderful that made me feel 

for the memory of my friend Dinky's big white dog and her loud family who I wanted to live with 

for the memory of a diamond flash of sun through the iced branches of a silver-barked tree 

for the memory of my reindeer skin boots with wolf fur tabs on the ties 

for the memory of eating raspberries off the long hedge of bushes in our yard 

for the memory of my father getting me out of bed and holding me on his shoulder in our yard to see the Aurora Borealis

 

for the memory of eating roast pig with crackling 

for the memory of windows thrown open mid-winter to drape all the bedding out into the sun and cold

for the memory of the place near my house, in the woods of an empty lot, where I'd sit among the lilies of the valley and know I was safe

 

I am also grateful  

for remembering kids yelling "crip" "crip" at me on the bus 

for remembering how I was part of the chorus of "fatty" "fatty" when the Sher twins got on at the next stop 

for remembering a car backing up beside me where I'd fallen on the ice and how the tires skimmed the upturned soles of my boot and how I never told anyone

for remembering how I hated my sister

 

for remembering that sleepless night knowing I had to get a test paper with a bad grade signed by a parent.

for remembering my father's spankings.  Well, not the spanking, just the belt unfastening and whipping through its belt loops. 

for remembering that when I was trapped on exam tables and operating tables an older me and a spirit me were always there, high in the corners, holding me gently in their regard  

 

for remembering