I Remember

I forgot how the morning birds used to wake me up

I live on the streets now with the sounds of screeching tires

I remember how the morning rays curved past the trees

How the rifts on the East slowly lit up with the sunrise

I forgot how the first rays filled the skin with an exotic satisfaction

I remember how the willow trees made a rhythm with the wind

How the morning breeze chilled and numbed all at once

How the lousy morning talks slowly faded before breakfast

How the family of six gradually became five or four

How the elder sister got married and never came home

How the elder brother impregnated a girl and ran away to the city

I remember how the family got together every Christmas

I remember how the rain was welcomed by baby games

I mean the kids played in the rain, and their parents made more

I remember the long and short barefoot walks to the factory

I remember the evening sneak out from the girls

Their mere intentions to get a hug in a dark alley or beneath the trees

I forgot how it felt to sit around the fire late at night

I forgot how it was when mom told us of her travels

I remember the fun talks, every night before a journey

I remember, the sweet laughter, filled with a family warmth

I remember everything; nothing was ever cold