Yesterday we were up in my parents attic and Trevor came across an old pocketbook of mine. It had a handful of pictures in it and a poem.
The pictures are of nothing specific. A few of me, one of me at two or three with my dad, another of me and some friends at the fingerlakes beach, another is a random shot at what I believe is a youth in government conference. In fact I'm not entirely sure those pictures weren't simply stuffed in there when sorting something else out in the attic.There seems to be no common denominator, some don't even involve me.
The poem however, is most definitely written in my hand and seems especially fitting, because I have no recollection of who it was written about, if anyone. In fact, the poem itself is only vaguely familiar. It very well could have simply been the wondering of a bored mind. I am known to do that occasionally. Trevor says it's very interesting to find my jumbled verses on random pieces of paper and ads in the car, mostly written when I'm sitting in the car with the boys so we don't have to all go in somewhere for a quick stop. It took him a while to stop trying to figure out if they were directed at him, he eventually realized that when I'm bored I write, sometimes without a real subject or purpose.
Anyways, here's the poem-
I forgot you, the other day
Your image simply fell away
And no matter what I do or how I pray
There was no way to make it stay
So I forgot you, the other day
I forgot the ways we use to play
I forgot the things you use to say
And all the places where we use to lay
Yes I forgot you, the other day