Each year’s a fresh collage of memories,
most blurry, insignificant, and pale—
but some recur as vivid reveries.

Please.

Of those, I cannot choose a favorite tale.

How could I rank a moment as the one
I’d save to an impenetrable drive
if suddenly my brain became corrupt,
deleting every snippet of my life?

No love is more important than the next.

I’d sadly watch each pixel fade away
from Betamax home movies in my head,
all color leached, my screen a snowy gray,
still hanging tight to this year’s bonus speck—
the extra day of Mason loves Mammay.