The Sands of Time

As a teen

Before I open the side door

to enter my modest home,

I remove both my sneakers,

turn them upside down, shake them,

and watch the warm, dirty sand

pour down like a tipped hourglass.

The granular souvenir

of my visit to the beach

settles on a flower bed,

soon to be blown away

and forgotten. Good riddance.

In old age

Wistfully I peer out the window

of my assisted living home.

I remove both my slippers,

turn them upside down, shake them,

and imagine that I see sand

pour down like a tipped hourglass.

The granular memory

of my visit to the beach

as a young man is fading

and getting harder to recall.

Please, God, don’t let me forget.