Memory Tray

by bernard pearson

I have come to believe

that it is the small pieces,

beach combed from a life that

can matter most.

The moment of forgiveness,

the chuckle of the heart,

An act of kindness

from the unforgiven;

the charm, rather

than the bracelet from a lover.

Sometimes even the death

and not what preceded it

the microscope that only picks

up the pathogen and not

the cure, is of little use to me.

It is the hand taken

and given at the end of day

unfettered by the world’s

crushing weight that is the one

to hold when all else fades from view.