Memory’s Embrace

My moth-eaten memory remains,
Despite frays, a warm garment.
I share some fabrications with my brothers
That we hand-me-downed to our baby sister.

The clothes make the man (or woman, or child).
The designer was a family committee.
When we try on all our recollections,
Some feel tailor made while
Others fit less well, and are tattered
Beyond knowing.

Still, I count on these holey memories
Like an iron lung, to keep pumping
The breath of ancestors
When the present seems to suffocate.

With need to share this air,
I reach my open arms
To the brother who
Leans to pull the plug.
I pray he’ll feel what I still feel,
The memory hug.