Standing beside a small window into someone’s life
Can it be defined in pages and words that fall?
Is the window open crisscrossed with the spiderwebs of telling the story
And reality blurrily slips through the cracks
Do you have memories that aren’t as true as they seem can you tell the story of others without turning them
Into a story
A sensation.
Woven together with the trials, requirements, expectations of girlhood and the way it sticks
Sickly like tree sap.
No one wants to let the little girl grow up.
The words and associations.
The same?
Similar?
CDs, diskman, walkman, cassettes, the last rotary phone.
The last time you picked up the phone to hear the internet screaming on the line.
What do we share, what don’t we?
Scraped knees and falling down when pride still made you jump back up and say
I’m fine
While life dripped down your shin.
I remember sitting on the other side of a great hole in the ground filled with the water of a billion crying clouds
And knowing my grandmother was dying on the other side.
Helpless hopeless lost
How did you get found when you lost your mother?
In this land of repetition
Birth and loss
Death and growth
In the web of tales woven in the window.
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