I’ve got a poem up at Defuncted, a journal dedicated to reprinting pieces from defunct publications.
I’m grateful to editor Roo Black for providing a place where this poem can continue on. We live in an age of rapid advancement, and with that comes quick obsolescence. Writing has always transcended the technology/medium of its communication.
At my parent’s house, my mother has a glass topped table in her kitchen. The table base is the wrought-iron base of an old sewing machine…it has a pedal. It is only natural to want to push the pedal and make the wheel rotate. For years, members of the family have taken turns sitting in the seat with the pedal at our feet, cranking away while we drank coffee in the mornings, ate our breakfast, held late night discussions… sowing conversation and weaving stories. Our children, from the moment they could reach the pedal from the seat, wanted to sit there and work the pedal. It was a moment we could engage them in a conversation. But more than that, it was a time to share our memories with them.
…until the axle finally broke away from the wheel. We could rest our feet there, but the pedal would not move. It was as if time conspired. Everyone was older, people were moving faster, things break down.
During one of his recent visits, my nephew attached the axle to the wheel and wrapped it with rubber bands. He is ten years old. He understands the value of memories and wanted to fix it.
We noticed it this past Thanksgiving and pedaled again with joy.
Rubber bands don’t last forever either, and they will in time dry out and become frangible. Those attachments, unless welded or firmly adhered, will become loose and broken again.
Time can take its toll on things, but memories fashioned with craftsmanship and ingenuity will last.
Our children see to that.