(sally mann / da série family color / 1990.91)
childhood house (an excerpt)
...somehow i had assumed
that the past stood still, in perfected effigies of itself,
and that what we had possessed remained our possession
forever, and that at the least the past, our past, our childhood,
waited, always available, at the touch of a nerve,
did not deteriorate like the untended house of an
aging mother, but stood in pristine perfection, as in
our remembrance. I see that isn't so, that
memory decays like the rest, is unstable in its essence,
flits, occludes, is variable, sidesteps, bleeds away, eludes
all recovery; worse, is not what it seemed once, alters
unfairly, is not the intact garden we remember but,
instead, speeds away from us backward terrifically
until when we pause to touch that sun-remembered
wall the stones are friable, crack and sift down,
and we could cry at the fierceness of that velocity
if our astonished eyes had time.
eric ormsby
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