Reflection

The pieces of memory poke through the black holes
surrounding events gone missing,
the quintessential moment presenting itself, illuminated,

on stage the roles repeating themselves as I watch, but
your cousin says the part about the band is all wrong, and
my best friend says it was Spring, not Fall.

I wonder what is driving, taking me places I may never
have actually been:  side roads, dark streets, countrysides
filled with honeysuckle and night-blooming jasmine.

The Chardonnay is chilled and as I sit here, I think
of heat and sweat and summer, limbs tangled, sheets
on the floor, a fan humming in the corner.

I guess it’s all relative, and who can say what is reliably
relayed when one tells stories by starlight, half lit by wine?
But I know this is real:

your kiss is still as sweet as I recall, your hand as firm
and warm, and your brown eyes have never
lost their sparkle.