Like the day it all comes home, cowbells clanging in
              the pasture, sheep click-clicking their
          way down some mountain trail,

    like a happy memory uncovered in
          the attic of my mind, or some
 word or thought I had just misplaced,

   when I searched that drawer for the small tape
           dispenser wheel, and found the silver ring
my father made for me long ago, two

   hours after I had found my black vest, the one with
          the pin ("Remember," it says in Yiddish),
then the receipt I had buried somewhere last month,

  so much lost, so much found,
       so much recovered on this day, the
second of May, my mother's yarzheit.

May 2, 2007

All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
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