We tell ourselves tales,
quivering emulsions of things we wish
we said, or dreamt for, or dream of—
before suspended hours dissolve into day—
where we abide these best and worst versions,
blended iterations of fiction and nonfiction.
Precision proves a poor editor, falling
under memory’s sway, crediting a
redacted narrative. Interpretation is your best guess,
where necessity begets invention. Point: We’re all
liable to practice hyperbole.
Counterpoint: Go easy.
There’s a rhythm to the story—
so you flew across the sky, so you had one more chance
with the one you love, so you fell, or lost, or cried,
or bled, so you healed, so you burned a bridge or mended
a fence, so you believed, so you created, or destroyed,
so you built a whole new world, or grieved, so you were a child,
or a parent, so you had the perfect comeback, just that one time,
so you lived and it was messy, so you sought forgiveness, so you
turned the other cheek, so the minutes tick by.
caroline ridgway 