“For what is a record but a reckoning?” -Amanda Gorman

I carry a record called “Cannot reckon”

It’s a torn page of dwindled words

It’s a shoe full of sand, 

a souvenir from a beach I've never sailed upon

It’s a clay vase cursed with water damage,

It doesn’t remember how the water got there.

When do I stop recalling?

Because moments turn to memories 

and memories turn to nothing at all.

When do we forget how to call upon?

Like answering the phone to an unknown number

which I hung up long ago.

When does our own evidence deceive us?

Convince us were slipping away from ourselves?

Because the blood stained gun says “I’m a prop!”

And I'm not the detective I thought I was.

Why do memories abuse us?

Because my best days were at the beach 

but now I swear it was a lake

Because now I have no record of water aside from a clay vase.

Why are we forced to reckon 

our recorded selves 

as if we are already 

Forgotten?

Because yesterday I was a child with seashells in my pockets and sand in my hair

And now,

I’m still a child but where'd the sea go?

I cannot reckon, 

or record, but maybe one day I can relive.