Poems by Rose

Do You Remember?

 

Do you remember when we went to dinner for your first birthday, 

black pearls looped lightly around your wrist? 

The chef sent onions blazing in a bright display,

and wonder turned to tears through smoke and mist. 

After dinner, five short minutes—the strand gave way, 

black beads bounced beneath each chair and shoe; 

I knelt to gather every pearl astray, 

learning how fast childhood slips from view. 

 

Do you remember when we went through the car wash when you were two, 

where brushes beat and colored currents streamed? 

Your little head kept darting, unsure what light might do, 

while every window shimmered, shook, and gleamed. 

I sat beside you, holding tightly to your hand, 

while water drummed and whirled against the glass; 

your dad and I were still together then, our lives still planned, 

not knowing that year would be our last. 

 

Do you remember when we went to our smaller home at three, 

after your dad and I had gone our separate ways? 

One bedroom waited; it belonged to you, not me, 

a place for play, for little toys, for brighter days. 

I slept out in the living room each night, 

and painted Peppa’s hills across your wall— 

her house, her pond, her flowers soft and bright, 

a little world to soften it all. 

 

Do you remember when we went on safari when you turned five, 

where animals wandered close beside the lake? 

We slept in a tent high above, the whole wild world alive, 

while dusk drew down and every shadow seemed to wake. 

Then midnight filled with calls across the night, 

low cries and rustling replies from shore to shore; 

we listened from our high tent, hushed by sound and sight, 

while all the animals made music once more. 

 

Do you remember when we went to pack Thanksgiving food with care, 

frozen turkeys, baby pumpkins, produce set in rows? 

We filled each box for families waiting there, 

passing plenty hand to hand as kindness grows. 

Did you know, since your father and I said goodbye, 

boxes just like these had helped us make it through? 

I packed them knowing how it felt to just get by, 

and what it meant to need one, too. 

 

Do you remember when we went to celebrate your seventh year, 

when I asked what gift you wanted most that day? 

You said, “Tesla stock—it’s going to do well,” so clear, 

as if you knew which way the world would sway. 

So I bought the share, then took you off to play, 

where Disney filled the hours with its thrills; 

then by helicopter we rose above L.A., 

and watched the city glitter past the Hills. 

 

Do you remember when we went to Our Exhibition when you were nine,

in San Francisco, where our paintings shared a wall? 

Your work was framed beside my work, your name beside mine, 

two artists there together in one hall. 

Strangers stopped and studied what we had made,

then chose the pieces they would take away; 

our paintings left with strangers; still, that moment stayed, 

and I stood beside you, proud of us that day. 

 

Do you remember when we went to the Philippines five months later, 

to celebrate the holidays and all that we had done? 

We crossed an underground river, bats above the water, 

then surfaced into heat and island sun. 

We bought golden pearls, then sailed a yacht at sea, 

where you tasted tropical fruits beneath the sun; 

by New Year, fireworks flared from our balcony, 

while I, by journey’s end, could taste not one. 

 

Do you remember when we went to Paris when you were twelve, 

and climbed the Eiffel Tower in summer light? 

The city spread beneath us—rooftops, roads, hotels, 

all running to the edges of our sight. 

We stayed inside a little hotel with a bidet, 

then ate saucisson beside the Seine; 

of all the grand things Paris gave that day, 

I remember how happy you were that we came. 

 

Do you remember when we went to our apartment rooftop in the sun, 

where pots and vines pushed color through the gray? 

Your tomatoes bore the most when harvest had begun, 

red fruit ripening richer every day. 

Across from us, one neighbor showered plain in view, 

her window bare, with nothing there to blind; 

still, by Fall, we had enough to see us through, 

and laughed at all the madness left behind. 

 

And if you do not remember, Alexa, that is all right, 

if photographs hold more than memory can keep; 

I will remember every color, sound, and light, 

each little thing the years may bury deep. 

I’ll keep the pearls, the gardens, sky and sea, 

and carry what grows faint across the years; 

the hand I held, the child you used to be, 

the laughter, losses, love, and little fears. 

 

You do not have to remember every place. 

I will remember them for us.

 

Just remember me.