I have another young memory that I’m not sure is really mine
but rather comes from folk tales,
family stories told to me,
and imagination, healthy fiction
that I have come up with,
building a lively reality,
rather than anything real.

I think sometimes I am viewing
from the camera’s POV
rather than experiencing the events
where I am carrying this see-through blue container
of seaglass and shells
in a darkened loft-space
full of overgrown plants and wooden floors.

Everything is oversized, for I am very young
and I am carrying my bottle carefully.
It is quite the prize, and it is delicate.
It is so delicate, in fact,
that it explodes in my hands
and glass embeds into the base of my left thumb
leaving a small mark that remains
to this day.

I believe there are kernels to this story
that have been embellished
from what I’ve been told,
but I cannot believe the lush complexity
of what I remember.
There is too much detail.
I have little faith in the color.

The storyteller is too often a liar
and his origin simply cannot be trusted.