When I am old and have become
 
One of the ladies of the Solarium,
 
Will those quiet nights of padded footsteps
 
 In deserted hallways
 
Bring back memories
 
Of what could have been?
 
Will fragments of those memories
 
Resound louder than the hushed voices
 
Of nurses’ aides and return
 
To haunt me in my aloneness?
 
                   
 
Memories…
 
   
 
                 Of that stranger in Wyoming
 
                 Who, after looking under the hood of my car,
 
                 Looked at me just as carefully and  said,
 
                 I could fix this by tonight
 
                 But won’t you stay a few days instead?
 
                 Oh, how I wanted to stay.
 
                    
 
                  But I said no, and what was denied
 
                 Accompanied me home.
 
                   
 
                 How can I forget that night,
 
                  When he refused to charge me for his work
 
                 And quietly said, instead,  
 
                 “Get in your car and go. Just go.”
 
                 “Why” I asked and then I knew
 
                 When his boss with  belly over his belt
 
                 Came running and yelling,
 
                 Angry because I had said no
 
                 Hours before.
 
   
 
 Memories…
 
   
 
                 Of that stranger who bought me chocolate ice cream
 
                 Outside a grocery store
 
                 Oh, how we talked and laughed,
 
                 Two strangers, without names
 
                 But our souls, oh, so connected.
 
                 Our names both etched in gold.
 
                 How I ached to finish this scene
 
                 Produced so many times
 
                 In novels and films.
 
                           
 
                 But I said no.                       
 
   
 
 Memories…
    
 
 Of a  stranger in Florence
 
                 Who screeched his truck,
 
                 As I walked non-chalantly down the street
 
                 In my newly acquired white hat.
 
                 "You speak English?
 
                 You and me,
 
                 We go dancing, tonight?”
 
                 He danced around me
 
                 Holding an imaginary me in his arms,
 
                I said, “ No, no speak English.”
 
                   
 
                 And that young Italian in Venice
 
                  Who held my hand and said I was beautiful.
 
                 I withdrew my hand from his  “Come with me to the Lido.”
 
                 That summer evening in the piazza.
 
   
 
 Memories…
 
 Of what could have been….
 
 Will they wet my pillow tonight?
 
   
 
                                  frances h. kakugawa menu
                                  
( after a visit to the nursing home)
                                  11-29-01