I watched you paint a picture every day,
we created art that summer.
The slow curve of your hand and tilt of your head
made me believe in many things – the power of the mind,
the possession of the soul.
I stand now, years later, back in that space.
I stare up at a box, stashed high
in the the closet, and call my father over to retrieve it.
“What’s in here?” he asks, and I just shrug, smile, at least I think I smile.
The box is ripped open and the contents spill out before my eyes.
Three works of art, some loose change, a roll of duct tape, old rags, and a key.
I pick up the key and time unwinds.
Somehow the curtains have opened,
and the sun has already slid halfway across the dusty floor,
now halfway up my left arm, onto my blouse,
it spreads like paint,
like an ocean it swallows
me in pieces.
And I want nothing more than to drown –
if only I could,
if I could touch that light –
why can’t I reach up and nail it to the wall?
This is edited from a longer piece I wrote years ago.
Written for dVerse Open Link Night.