on forgotten addresses
i had forgotten the address. Fine
(finer) details, too.
1. A wonder
2. A wish
3. A whimsy
4. A mistake
my memory
now flawed. my recollection
faulty.
instead
of lamenting memories
lost,
i’d take the car
and drive up and down the boulevard
trying to place the house. one of many,
among a row of houses simultaneously
nondescript and distinct.
an opportunity presented and i asked.
afraid others too would not remember.
belief turned believable
& recollections resurfaced
newly armed with a number, i retraced
prior steps. found the window that housed
the lava lamp. the rounded copper statue
blanketed of rosary beads
like with the television, she let me
play with it for hours. i’d stare,
mesmerized by both physics
and physiques
now i watch windows & wonder
who houses
the lamp now
a Google search revealed several
owners since she stood in the kitchen
in need of TLC
a snippet read. ready
to make your own,
a broker bargained
i regret never
returning the TLC
she lavished upon me
as she’d spend most days
in a small corner
of the kitchen
her heart
as big
as her world
was small
i was wrong
always
and i most regret
not asking
for/of/about
_1_, _2_, _3_, _4_
most days
Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. She is a Best of the Net nominee, with stories, poems and essays published in a wide variety of literary and scholarly journals. She is the author of A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Daily Puzzles: (Un)locking Invisibility and On Crossroads and Fill in the Blank Puzzles (forthcoming, Moonstone Press) and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.