Glow Worm

Glow Worm

“I had a green and yellow costume.”

She says to me, out of the blue.

Her hands lifting over her sheets,

back and forth in secret rhythms.

“I had a flashlight in each hand.”

They move from memory to her head,

smooth with white, white hair, then

back down to her tucked in body.

“Glow little glow worm, glimmer, glimmer,"

she sings, so softly, “I was four, I think."

Her hands come back to lie on her belly,

Eyes focused inwards, watching the show.

Her memories diminish, not like the moon

in her graceful glide from brim-full to shadow,

but in fits and starts, dropping memories while

crossing creeks and streets, they’ve flipped out of

pockets and cuffs while full hands fumble.

Then, wanting what she’s lost, she,

hands on hips, brows forever furrowed

thinks of where it was last seen, driving her

to search her memory's bookshelves

and sock drawers.

She plays a game of seek and what is that?

Not the memory she pursued, but this one

found behind the t.v. where it has lain for years,

nestled under a family of dust bunnies.

She is distracted from the concerns

of an old woman lying in bed,

and instead revels in this spotlight

of green and yellow, flashlights

and ballet shoes sliding along a stage.

Forgotten is the hunt for the thought

she thought she wanted, in favour of

this perfect, bright piece of herself

precious and glowing like a glow worm,

glimmering in the dark.