I know the sound of her voice
it was the first sound I ever heard
in the time before memories and remembering
there is still knowing. I know I would recognise
the sound, a specific vibration in my skull that I cannot
pull into a memory.
I know she liked pistachio ice cream or strawberry
or butter brickle. I am not sure what butter brickle is
But I know it is delicious and very sweet.
She liked things sweet, like sugar
on scrambled eggs. Not fried or poached,
but scrambled. And molasses. I know she like molasses.
Put it on toast. Black tea every morning,
Red Roses orange pekoe.
She had a favourite cup. I know that but I can't picture it.
I know she was afraid of the water but liked to swim
not in open water, not a lake and not a river, like the one
that took her brother under a layer of ice, too thin to support a boy in motion.
She knew how to make jam and pickles
she made them every year during summer holidays from her classroom.
I know she hated lilies and thought they smelled like death.
Her husband taught her to drive a stick shift and how to ski.
She was a great dancer. She liked the music
of ABBA and Nana Mouskouri, but I never saw her dance