Hydrangeas
Memory is a funny thing,
How it varies from person to person…
Like, my mom remembering me
Playing with the blue hydrangeas
Out front of our apartment
In the old, brown Victorian I grew up in
She remembers me holding the bundles of blossoms like a bride’s bouquet,
Playing Wedding Day like so many innocent children do…
Memory is a funny thing,
How it varies from person to person…
I have never told her
That I hate hydrangeas,
That they remind me of that first day
My older neighbor held me down
And threatened me and my family,
And violated my innocence,
And it hurt, and I cried and fought,
And I remember it half from my own perspective, afraid and violated,
And half from above those beautiful
Blue hydrangeas…
I fucking hate hydrangeas,
They have become a symbol of everything wrong in the world, in my mind, in me…
Memory is a funny thing,
How it varies from person to person…
Through the Fog poetry 