My Memory's Plaything

I am my memory’s plaything.
It winds and twists away from me,
No matter how fast I chase it.

I never liked being “it”.

When I don’t want my memory to find me,
It jumps out from the shadows with frightening speed,
And I cringe and push it away.

In childhood, I’d been better at hiding.

My memory laughs at me, makes me a fool.
It presents happy times in cynical light,
And my past prides become embarrassments.

Since when do I understand hindsight?

Since when is my memory such a bully?
♠ ♠ ♠
This is the result of an assignment from my AP English class. I had to write a poem inspired by
John Irving's quote, "You
think you have a memory--but it has you!"
from his novel A Prayer for Owen Meany.