Every morning I reach into my bag of memories
and pull out who to be for the day.
Sometimes it’s an old receipt,
half-remembered.
Other days it’s a photo of smiling faces
of loves frozen,
unrepeatable.
And there will be times when
I pull back my empty hand
and I am lost, for what will I be then?
Like lace and latticework;
to be defined by what is not there.
Everyday I look back and I feel myself disappear
because in turning my head to what was
I see my Eurydice crumple to the ground;
the snake clamped on her heel is now my pain,
her tumbling back into the dark my loss,
the forgiveness an aftertaste to my regret
But if I keep my eyes locked to what will be,
how will I know, with absolute certainty,
that I too,
had lived?
Nal Jalando-on lives in Koronadal City. In her free time – which is all the time – she reads and occasionally writes.