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Memoir
by Paula Neves

She digs out records that I never thought she'd keep,
creased and crumbling grade reports from Ann Street School in dusty manila sleeves,
childhood inoculation proofs from a long-gone clinic on Ferry Street—
I bear the tell-tale smallpox stamp
intricate as an August moon,
on my upper left arm near the shoulder joint,
like many in my generation.
I have no offering more significant.

She, however, bothered to keep the ordinary diplomas
of a life proceeding more or less in order:
President's Council on Physical Fitness card, Harrison Driving School certificate,
A Kearny orthodontist’s appointment reminder, Livingston College acceptance letter—
and then what?
No matter—she has all the evidence and more to prove
she married, made a child, planted a tree.

But where's the book
that all these pages don't quite make?
She hasn't written it yet, she admits,
though all of it proceeds from her
in a rain of reminiscence and receipts.
Someday, if I remember to, I'll gladly
bear it all away again and send her a thank you card,

from the lunar vistas of my illiterate arm.

©2006 Paula Neves
This poem previously appeared in The Newark Metro.