No Access



Twenty-two thousand days,

and only a few of them

as clearly outlined

as morning clouds silhouetted

in shimmering scarlet

and apricot

with the sun sneaking

up behind them.


Faded, half-forgotten images

flicker across my mind:

trotting along the ditch bank

beside my dad,

standing tippy toe on the fence

to peep at newborn piglets,

watching out the window

as four little blondies bounced

on the trampoline–


but whole days and weeks,

even months, have vanished.

Where are they?

I’m sure my parents

cuddled me and

cooed me,

but my memory

of those first three years

is marked “no access.”


What about the days

I read books to my children,

kissed their owwies,

threw fly balls to them,

read scriptures at breakfast,

drove them to games,

coaxed and caressed them,

admonished and scolded them?


Again, I have glimpses,

glimmers of then.

But what purpose those days

if they pale and grow dim?

I can number the hours

as they each disappear

along with my old self

silently slipping away.


About Judy Grigg Hansen
I write poetry and nonfiction, and I am passionate about the people, places, and wildflowers of Idaho and the Northwest.

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