Time hangs veil-like before my face.
I remember, through lace, the years
that spin threads from raw time. Fine threads
woven, as seconds loom to hours,
into the sibylline pattern
that obscures vision of my past.
With veiled face I seek the first thought,
prying from the pattern a glimpse
through its first stitch. My fingers trace
the unraveled spaces searching
for the foundation of myself,
the first flash of self-cognition.
My fingers catch. I remember
through the veil with an infant’s eyes
a picture unimbued with words.
I remember the kitchen door,
no longer home, but always home,
the moment that defines all homes.
I remember unfamiliar
walls, made familial by two faces
anchoring me in this new world.
They smile, and the moment pauses
in a long second of warmth.
The lace hides the rest in darkness.