He is in all of them.
I remember him standing, unsteady,
distressed I was ill,
peering into the lap where I lay
cradled and crying.
His effort to help, showing me picture cards
that I disregarded.
I learned to count from the lesson
that his fourth birthday did not, for some reason,
make me three, not for another two months
and I would never catch up with him.
Next year he rode off on his tricycle,
outpacing our grandmother,
crossed alone at the traffic lights:
said he just waited till everything stopped,
then knew it was my turn.
He built a cart, pulled me around in it
till it overturned,
then was blamed for my tears.
I didn’t mind
once my bruise yellowed.
That last long summer
we splashed in the shallows together
naked as frogs, brown as the small fish
that nibbled our toes.
I think for a while he was God to me,
filled my sky.
I didn’t cry when he left.
Nobody told me
he would only return for short visits:
nor warned that all seasons
from now on would be colder.
by Anne Ballard
‘First Memories’ is a Highly Commended poem in the Stepping Stones Nigeria Poetry Competition 2011.
