When we re-encounter an object
from a memory, and find it exists
exactly as we picture it, why do
we feel triumphant.
The little gold piano on the charm bracelet
my mom was given for her 16th birthday,
that my sister and I played with as children,
opening and closing the tiny hinged lid
of the piano like a locket.
Yesterday, when I saw the bracelet again
my impulse was to slide my fingernail
between the seam of the piano, to lift
its lid. Before I could, my mom told me
The piano won’t open, your sister already
Even when no one else is challenging
what we recall, we feel like shouting,
I knew I was right! One part of us doubts.
The other clings.