by Annette Snyckers
I am drawn to making lists and writing notes,
wrapping up in words my every day
to record the mundane,
of who had whooping cough when
and the miraculous,
of who passed matric without opening a book.
Also all the sad days when pets died
and the mad elation at the birth of a child.
My life is packed in little black books
in which I can check when it was
you wrote the car off one night
and the hospital called.
I can find things long forgotten,
like the name of every cat I ever loved
and how much I paid
for that dress I bought in Paris.
The time the snake slithered down the passage,
how the bush baby sat on my head
and groomed me every night,
the time it snowed in September,
how you turned blue from that allergy,
even the time I swallowed a fly.
Some dates stayed blank —
not knowing how,
how to live this life.