History is set along a line of sight;
A string of wisdom’s finest gems
Or oldest coal dust stones;
A cord of recollected order occasionally supported
By an assortment of captured ephemera:
Whether written bits from witnesses
Or photographs mapping back roads;
Pictures framed by failing eyesight
Or recordings sounding nothing like the pilot,
And on these twines and wires,
These threads of frozen verities,
We attach our memories to
So that they fit the facts,
Which then dose back the fictions given,
Allowing our little throats to wear them well
And sell them better
To those who don’t believe
Or make mischief out of matters.
But sometimes in the beading of reason
There’s a blurred occurrence,
A smudge of dusty grease upon the scene,
And then it’s our recollections that
Come to the rescue of the piece,
And I know that without the mistakes I have made,
With all their intensive consequences,
And muddying of time’s puddles,
That I wouldn’t have my son here now to love.
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