The Dead Have Lost Their Stories
A poem
I struggle to remember all the stories my parents told me. They were the ones that embodied all that they lived. They shared them with me so I would know what mattered most to them.
What they had meant? Who had they been? All they had learned?
There is no record of who they were. The stories are faint echos I try to recall Does this not happen to all of us? The day comes and we have only the echoes of our stories remembered faintly by the few.
Then the few are gone.
Those stories that defined a life, that held what we cherished, laughed about and cried about gone. I worry about every story. I have cherished them so.
I worry not about mortality, but I fear the stories will be held in the silent lips of the dead.
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