The Festival by Jeff Lewis

There was a festival that day,
I don’t remember what it was called.
I remember the soft curve of her cheek,
I remember the way she padded gently
across the earth
as though afraid of leaving a permanent mark.
I remember her cries of delight
as I won the little stuffed tiger
after seven futile attempts.
I remember how she carried it in her arms
for the remainder of the evening.

A few days ago,
I read there would be an auction
of her things.
I went in hopes of catching a glimpse
of her lingering spirit
among the antiques and curios,
and there on the top shelf
of an old bookcase
perched the little stuffed tiger
untouched by the passing of years.
For she had remembered too
and left her mark without even trying.

Jeff Lewis lives on a farm in the Ohio Valley with his wife, daughters, and cats. Lots of cats. He has written for years, but am only recently started sending submissions.


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