I should remember better . . . Streets and high buildings Filled with a million sounds And the stress of life.
But most clearly I recall My grandmother, Knitting rapidly bright-colored yarn Or hulling large strawberries With my aid. And I can remember walking, Clinging tightly to giant fingers; Our steps made a sharp noise On the pavement, as we hurried along For ice cream.
The speaker is trying to recall a first visit to a city, and admits right away that the memory isn't what it should be. The streets, the tall buildings, the noise and bustle of "the stress of life" have all faded into a vague blur. What has stayed sharp is something much smaller and warmer: a grandmother knitting bright yarn, or hulling strawberries with a child's help.
The turning point comes with "But most clearly," where the poem shifts from the big, overwhelming city to the intimate details of one person. The image of "clinging tightly to giant fingers" puts us at a child's height, where an adult's hand really would seem enormous. The sharp sound of footsteps on the pavement and the hurry toward ice cream add a bit of playful energy.
The mood is gentle and nostalgic. The poem suggests that what we keep from childhood is rarely the grand setting, but the people who made us feel safe.