Sadly my first ever personal memoir did not place in the Byline's contest. Also, I have lost the pickle a friend gave me. The pickle was going to dance when I won and be all happy on my blog. This pickle inspired me to write this memoir and I regret letting the little pickle down. You can see the pickle in an older post on this blog. I was unable to make him dance when he was originally posted and now I'm afraid he's just moved on to pickle heaven. Hope you enjoy my memoir/poem.

Carole

While Fuji Watched

By Carole Brooks

Two faces meeting,

both bald and semi-toothless,

your worldly eyes smile, as if for the first time

they capture something wonderful to behold.

I'm in my highchair, toes reaching

to touch only air, sticky fingers holding a pickle.

My tooth and gum gritting from the sweet, sour juice.

The laughter comes forth, first you, then me, then you,

as I take each gleeful bite...

... Off to Japan.

So quickly, we were gone. They did not have pickles and my soul knew,

at two, I had lost my first love.

Regardless, I grew. Had a full mouth of teeth now.

My hair, thick and full, became pony-tailed in a wisp of time

I was a big girl.

Kimona clad, and zorried,

I learned to dance,

with white- gloved hands that held a fresh clean fan;

my fingers yearned for the feel of laughter.

Origami filled my days.

A rickshaw ride to shrined Buddhas,

with endless pictures were weekend jaunts.

I looked for your eyes through the camera lens.

Other days, typhoons terrified everyone but me,

as we huddled, I held my geisha doll and learned

to love the scent of sandalwood much like the

sweetness of your cigar.

Mount Fuji watched our pickleless picnics.

Polite people worked in the rice paddies. I

thought I glimpsed your silhouette in the shadows of

their bow.

Fish permeated the air as I learned

the art of riding a bicycle pretending

I was still on your shoulders.

The fifth birthday arrived.

Okiko, our maid, made me a new

coat, her wrinkled fingers, weaving the

thread. In her stitches I saw myself

on your feet as we danced, the

rhythm much akin.

It was she who held me tight

the day we heard you died...

...Fifty years later

I still have my teeth.

A vague scent of your cigar

causes me to touch my gray

hair and I want to let you know,

I found God in the laughter of

loving pickles and toothless grins.

The End