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Bottle The Day
By Rowan Hale
She insists on wearing her coat open
like a sail, like a basket,
catching something I can't see.
like a sail, like a basket,
catching something I can't see.
By evening when we come inside
the whole day is there:
damp mulch from the playground,
dust from the old rug in the library,
cheese and apples from her afternoon snack.
the whole day is there:
damp mulch from the playground,
dust from the old rug in the library,
cheese and apples from her afternoon snack.
I lean close as I hang her coat
and breathe it in: this coat
has been everywhere she went today,
remembering moments of her day.
and breathe it in: this coat
has been everywhere she went today,
remembering moments of her day.
She doesn't know she's collecting smells.
Doesn't know that scent is memory's first language,
that she's been writing the day down
in the fibers of her wooly coat.
Doesn't know that scent is memory's first language,
that she's been writing the day down
in the fibers of her wooly coat.
At night when I tuck her in
I want to hold on to her childhood forever.
I think of her coat, everything it caught,
and I wish I could bottle the day before it slips away.
I want to hold on to her childhood forever.
I think of her coat, everything it caught,
and I wish I could bottle the day before it slips away.
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