“Our mothers wore dresses -- slim at the waist, skirts flaring”
I don’t read a lot of poetry, and much that I do read is soon left behind. But sometimes I’m lucky enough to find a poem I really like. It seems extraordinarily true, or well-said, or beautiful, or thoughtful, and when I read it again the next day it's just as good.
We wore dresses "so white they dazzled even the grainy eye of the camera"
Such a poem appeared a few days ago at The Writer’s Almanac. It was about photography -- about how we take photos hoping to fix, set, make fast certain moments in our lives. This seems to be a reflex, almost instinctual, perhaps something as deep as fear of death or desire for immortality.
"Everyone we knew was young then."
Or maybe we're writing our stories. If so, then we should hold tightly those memories that fit the tales we were told as children, to overshadow disappointments that intervene.
"we looked down into the viewfinder topress the button that would keep us there,as if we already knew that this wasas good as it was ever going to get"
"that was the last perfect season"
The poem is The Last Perfect Season by Joyce Sutphen.
