Not Much Of A Poem, Not Much Of A Memory... For Al Purdy Poem by r james sterzinger

we bought two picture books that day
one brown one red
the covers in faux leather

in between the pages we
put in pictures
of you me
memories
we were going to want to save

memories I know longer have
oh, there is a few
our first home,
the second,
that's about it.

I don't recall
when you bought
those huge glasses
at twenty-five you were
already close to blind.
I vaguely remember something
about that

I don't remember
my arm around you then
when you looked frail before
the transplant that was suppose
to save your life
but didn't

the hell of it all
is I don't remember
much about you at all
a year after your death
I couldn't recall your voice
the way you laughed
my mind locked you out

I am the carrier of your memory
your longest deepest love
and I failed the job

you are dead to me
twenty-five years later
the most I can recall with clarity
with a singular vision
is where you are buried
near the church we went to
that no longer exists

now you are truly dead
a place where I can't reach
nor touch you
a place you can't come back from

I have stories of you, true
how much of me
are these stories?
how much you?
I am as unreliable
as they are.

the only two things
that are reliable
are the spaces between the pictures
and that you are dead
as they say
like a door nail
like a coffin nail
that I know for sure
that memory
is the only one
to be counted on.