Joy is impossible to fake, they say.
October 15, 2024
From front to back, receding layers
slabs of stone, scattered on the ground
blasted remains of some forgotten castle
and then behind it – a field, green and empty
the sky resting on its grassy shoulders
blemished only by the tail of a single cloud
billowing out of view.
At the centre of it all, a throne
made of rock, as if growing from the earth
and atop it – my parents, younger than I am now.
Could you say they ruled the world?
Her head upon his shoulder? He squints
in a blue-and-white tracksuit. She smiles,
grey blazer, black turtleneck, a pendant.
Their legs are hugging, ankles wrapped together,
sneakers matching, white and yellow.
Joy is impossible to fake, they say.
Your eyes will always betray you.
I never used to fear
the ways love can be lost in time
until I found it for myself
and wondered:
who dropped this?