Is there a softer side on the other side of the earth?
My internal prisoners have scattered so I have somersaulted to another life.
There is my old tree where I fantasized of unborn things and
there is my garden of tulips my father planted along the house bricks, the corner window where Pixie waited and the birds came to nest.
There is my oak tree …the patio where we partied and ate unimaginable petit fours in the spring.
There am I dancing through the house to Porgy and Bess, I am famous in my fantasy.
Sitting on the stairs watching my brother’s friend come through the winter door that never opened up.
Harriet’s room is untouched and bearing hidden pink boxes, her diaries filled with perfumed words – there are towers of fluff as I look her in the eye, today she is still 17….
and down the street I see my bicylce as I left it on the sidewalk to listen to the train howl, discover caterpillars, visit Bonnie or Hillary.
Let’s go back today to my old house across the Atlantic to lay down in my old bed and play my teenage dreams out again.
Memory milky like gloss…