Souvenir
for my sister
The things we saved we won’t
throw away now—old toys,
postcards and trinkets. Everything
that really happened—one summer
or the next—we’ve both revised
into the stories we believe
we didn’t invent. How much
have we deceived ourselves?
We’ll never find out. Look
at what we kept—the sand dollar
and its broken stars, the paperweight
with its tiny sea horse still
afloat inside. What did we want
when we bought them?
Standing at the counter,
waiting for our parents to pay,
we must have been impatient
for our actual lives to begin.
As if they hadn’t,
as if we’d know when they did.