A Lost Memory

I am not born.

It is 1945.

My father is in Europe,

fighting a war;

and my mother irons her skirt

beside a wood burning stove,

light from the kerosene lamp

casting gleams in her dark hair.

Neither has ever dreamed of me,

or of my brothers

who will dance with me under mountain stars.

I wave to them

but they do not see me.

I try to warn them

of the hardness of their life ahead,

but they do not hear.

My mother tosses her head.

Her eyes catch the lamp light,

circle it with her dreams.

My father turns on his cot,

and looks through the tent door

at a full autumn moon.

He smiles.

The Web Projects of Sondra Ball and Mario Cavallini