Ultrasound heart
By Lee-Anne Ford
The double-edged sword of memory,
A blade that grinds the soul with emery.
Raw nerves exposed, yet must stay composed—
No mercy in eternity.
A gallery of snapshots, a series of slides,
Each moment frozen, no film to rewind.
Not a story, but a slideshow,
People and places etched in time.
Mama’s battle with a cake tin—before it flew out the window.
Papa’s thousand-yard stare—when she wished to be widow.
Piper, proud in the show ring, a Scottie with ‘it.’
Pine plantations standing in serried ranks,
like soldiers guarding a farmer’s shadow.
Yet memory, too, holds the weight of the unknown—
The reprimands, the demands, the silent groan.
The Bolshie stall, my defiant refrain—
A little PDA, a little disdain.
Abandoned friendships, where I thought them perfect rhymes,
Each one lost before its time.
Imagine an image in high definition,
Every feature crisp, every frame precision.
Textures, light, and echoes sound—
Each a mind’s own locus, bound.
Some memories cut like bitter glass,
Some bloom as sweet as wine.
Autistic memory does not fade,
Singular, sharp, defined.
We recall what you forget,
We see what you let blur.
Not better, not worse—
Just. Different.
The Auld Skald's Fudgel 