Reeling Wheels

Shuffling through the box – favorites in my grasp –

of home made movies, labels worn away.

I set the rest aside stirring up clouds

of dust that dry my eyes until they tear.

The cassette player hums as the film wheels,

the screen’s edge wavers with distorted threads:

***

A baby blanket fringed with rose pink thread

and Dad’s finger caught in a small hand’s grasp.

The picture flickers to my mom wheeling

a stroller in the park, a time away

but a scene of home, as she quiets tears

in a nursery papered with cotton clouds.

***

A cul-de-sac scene jolts to whirling clouds

then to a closeup of blond bangs, frayed threads

of ripped jeans, and skinned knees, no screams or tears.

The five year old version of myself grasps

the tasseled handlebars and rides away

determined to bike without training wheels.

***

The next tape opens on a Ferris wheel,

my sister and I pulling tufts from clouds

of sugar at some fair long gone away.

The spokes and swinging seats all rimmed with threads

of light, lurching with sudden starts we grasp

the bar beneath a sky of diamond tears.

***

Fast forward through months, years, through laughs and tears,

Dad’s next to me and I’m behind the wheel,

hands at two and ten, leather tightly grasped.

He explains wiper controls as the clouds,

dark above us, threaten rain, like the threads

between us threatening to pull away.

***

The screen goes black, the picture fades away,

my cheeks are streaked with the salt trails of tears.

I press rewind to retract all these threads

of memory and I’ll replay each wheel

of film in my mind until they’re cloudy,

floating somewhere far beyond my grasp.

***

Childhood has slipped away on silent wheels,

leaving unraveled threads to which I grasp,

wisps of marshmallow clouds dissolved in tears.