Our photo album was empty. We knew we’d look back
To the blank pages and feel like we’ve lost a memory
Here and there. So we filled it.
Photos from the countryside, the farm visit,
And milking our first cow. Photos from the holiday,
Our red faces smiling against the blue skies with sand
Stuck to our stomachs. Photos from the Christmas mass,
Where we sung at the height of drunkenness and danced
Our way home, kicking up the snow as we went.
I insisted on keeping the photos of the piano incident.
It was an elderly thing and found its weakness to gravity
When it came to moving down the stairs. Enclosed in the frame,
It’s splintered like spaghetti, heaped at the bottom of the stairway,
The broken banister beside in shards of white painted wood.
Keep those photos, I asked,
Because what’s all these merry moments
Without the little calamities.