Old photographs slip through her fingers,
Scattered at her feet, swirling dizzyingly;
It could have been another life, but it was hers.
Slowly the pictures blur, ‘til hundreds look like only one;
A kaleidoscope of images telling a thousand things,
Jumbled storylines, what she’d done –
She closes her eyes, but the colours stay;
She remembers the squeak of her pencil,
Tiny moments, seconds, a day
The itch of a sweater, the taste of a cake
She breaches the years in flashbacks;
Snippets of conversation, a muddy lake
She remembers the delirious joy,
The perfect innocence of a little girl
Back when she was Helen of Troy –
Back when she was everything.
But it’s all gone now;
Nothing’s left but the silent sting,
Knowing that little girl won’t come back again.
~ Ilana Reimer