Sometimes I remember little things that have been lost.
The notebook of poetry and observations
and other bits I wrote on that trip.
A bundle of love letters written
by a nineteen year old who detailed his days
and gently phrased his affection.
A bracelet bought from a street stall in Boston.
A small stuffed panda with ripped seams at the armpits.
These are just material things. They say the best things are memories.
But memories are not fact, memories are oft inaccurate.
Those things were constants, fixed points
of the experiences and faces that presented those gifts.