I went to bed and cried that night, after writing
about my friend, “Joe, the Hungarian;” our meeting
and parting, and reflected on what it meant to lose
track of a friend, though it was only blip on the screen
then; why the tears now? Why did it effect me so?  

I thought about the losses wrenched away; at
what age did I begin to count them? The things
I would have wanted to keep, if I had been given
a choice; but what of these memories that I wish
were gone, yet I wear them and they chafe like a burr.  

One set adored, the other abhorred. Just what
is it about good memories that make them melt
into the woodwork of the mind and go unseen
for many years then suddenly resurface years later,
and then weep with the gladness of remembering?  

And, why is it that I keep bad memories so close,
and let good ones fade away? Could it be the good ones
are finished just like they are; they don’t need fixing
and are released, but the mean, haunting ones are kept
close,hoping to give each a new ending.  

I think it had probably been 20 years since the last time
I’d thought of the letters from my Hungarian friend.
Yet daily, it seemed, some kind of bitter loss came to mind.
I’d tried ceremonies to release and let go, though some
were spur-of-the-moment.  

So then why do I still have so many bitter nuggets
rattling around in my memory bucket that I try to
pretend are not there? Why can’t I just dump them
out or maybe reframe or replace them with a softer,
lovelier memories for me to carry around instead?

Is it because great memories are near perfect,
making them easy to not think about, but
bad memories get swept under the rug in hopes
that someday, we’ll give them a new outcome.