Story Telling

My memories may be


Or crystal,

But not facts.

The morning I questioned Daddy

Might have been late afternoon,

Maybe on the back porch

Not in the garden

At all.

It might have been early evening


After the 9 o’clock whistle.

The sun was shining;

It was raining.

There was a thunderstorm and

We were singing

So I wouldn’t be afraid of the lightning.

Maybe we talked about

Uncle Giulio, built like a fireplug,

Who loved:

Good homemade wine

Good arguments

And a good story.

Ma says

Uncle could talk the devil into heaven.

Maybe I made it all up

In my head,

To paint a picture of

What is really true.

6 thoughts on “Story Telling

  1. This!

    This is an ultimate example of show-don’t-tell, illustrating how our minds are built for stories, and we fill in the gaps, oftentimes believing those details to be real and true. I just listened to a Brene Brown book this week, Rising Strong, that called this a confabulation. It’s a new word I love.

    I love the way you composed it in poetic form!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I loved reading this post. Do you ever listen to Radio Lab on NPR? There’s an episode from a ways back that explores what makes the “truest” memory. Turns out, the memories we don’t share are the ones that are actually closest to the truth – I think you’d love it!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. This is wonderful! The more I write, the more I’ve come to believe that there’s an emotional truth that transcends the factual truth. That’s what I try to capture in a piece. Your poem explains this so well.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I was looking for the just-right words to respond to your beautiful writing, Diane. I’ll defer to Molly because she said what I was thinking (but couldn’t get out of my brain and into this comment box)!

      Liked by 1 person

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