Letting Go by Joan Currie

I came across
my late husband’s
hockey skates

in a box with several pucks
and his leather gloves.

I had kept them
for more than twenty years–
remnants of a sport he loved.

I asked my daughters
if they remembered
skating with him.

“No, but we must have.”

We searched the photo albums
for evidence.
Nothing.

Worse, I had no memory
of skating with him either.

Surely, I must have.

I remember watching him
at hockey practice
at university,

but I wanted a memory
of the two of us
skating hand in hand
on a crisp winter night.

There wasn’t one.

So we let the box go–

the skates,
the pucks,
the leather gloves–

and kept
the memories of him
that were ours.