What We Remember

I’ve been thinking a lot about what we remember, and what we forget. We all remember some kisses, and some hands.

Michael Kreiger’s cousin
his name might be Henry
I don’t quite remember
but I do know he
kissed me in seventh grade
standing by a big
oak tree he put his hand
on my back right on my bra strap
my bra looked like two peanut shells
connected with nylon string
my first memorable kiss
his hand was right there.
On my back forever. He lived
in another town
so he wrote me a letter.
I don’t remember his words
but he drew a picture of the outline
of his hand and I
could feel it there.

Esther Cohen
Let me tell you why I'm here, and why I hope you'll join me. I am here to poem, to play with words, to tell stories when I can, and to ask you for yours. Words are what I love, how I see, and what I say. Words are how I know my life, and how I find my friends. I'm here to ask you to join me. Right here. To send me your stories, and your poems. And to read mine when you can.


  1. Well, speaking of memory, yesterday I was filling out an application for a DUNS (Dun and Bradstreet) number required when you apply for a grant from USAID. They had a series of basic questions, which only I would know the answers to, if I went to get into my file. One of them was “What is the name of the first person/girl/boy (don’t remember how they phrased it) you kissed?”
    Well, her name was Alice. It was a big deal when I was 16, so I even consulted with another more worldly female friend (born in Cuba, therefore worldly) if I should or shouldn’t. “Of course you should” she responded. Many years later we met again (the Cuban girl that is), and she told me “when you asked me that, I wanted you to kiss ME, but I was afraid to say so.”

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