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Post by frodissa on Jun 14, 2014 9:21:49 GMT -5
like a revolving door
it's there
then it isn't
is it back again?
"You told me that last week."
I did?
then everything goes grey
and i'm here
but i'm not
as clear as day through soggy snow he pulls me on a wooden sled as we search for his glasses on the side of oaklynn street
he sets me on his knee and calls me "sam"
leaves and pine cones simmering in cold rain water stirred with a stick that blew off the flat asphalt roof
mourning doves and a porch swing in the middle of the back yard
purple corduroy and unicorns
she makes me a chocolate shake in a jewel-toned tin cup it's silver on the inside it tastes and smells metallic the edge curves to meet my lips after I get all that can be gotten with a spoon straw made of glass
sharp closing throat when i breathe in the carols and the sharp night air a hollow hallowed trembling moving into sounds something ancient and far away always just out of reach but closer in the hymns and later in crystalline silence
"I had better write that down."
Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk
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Post by Cir on Jun 15, 2014 21:48:58 GMT -5
This is the most beautiful piece of writing on memory I know about. I love how it starts out, kind of plinking along, then the rhythm starts and sweeps you along in it, like drifting into a dream. The memories are beautiful and so universal, yet wonderfully described. And the lines that open and close this piece are so wise, they really make this one for the books
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Post by tarasummerville on Jun 17, 2014 18:01:40 GMT -5
I love the moment that you captured here so much. You know what delivered me to that moment 100 percent? Mentioning mourning doves. It could just be me (and you) but the sound of a mourning dove means summer. My grandma used to always say that if you heard a mourning dove in the morning, it meant that it was going to be a beautiful day and they finally have something to be happy about. This was really a beautiful piece, Lynn
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