Rita Sims Quillen: First Memory

People never believe me

when I tell them I recall

waking in my crib, lying watchful

while my parents dozed.

I slept there until I was two

in front of the window in their bedroom.

I remember watching the sun rise

amazed, lazy in my warm nest,

only the sound of breathing,

blood rush pulsing the words yes and yes.

Just as now I feel no need

to summon others at the moment

the miraculous occurs,

I couldn’t tell my parents then or later

that I saw God and angels and clouds

that became beliefs, most of all,

that silence was now

a cloak I would inhabit,

walk around inside 

wearing it as beautiful silk

all my days.

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From Rita Sims Quillen’s Some Notes You Hold (Madville 2020). Copyright 2020 Rita Simms Quillen.