I am being haunted by
my childhood house, which I have left for good now, signed away or as good as,
hoping to find a buyer who will love it as much as I have over the years—if not
enough to hang onto, in the end, to love no matter what or why or where I am.
What I have been is
there, what’s in its fabric is our lives—my parents, me, the friends who came
and stayed and came and went and come back now, in dreams, without reproach,
not saying much at all, just standing in the dark, reminding me.
image: She Who Is
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