Thursday, April 09, 2015
Some days, those puddles slid too close and mingled. Some days those pools of man seeped a bit through a floorboard, or trickled into an insect burrow, never to be seen again. When the long shadows pulled over us like blankets, when the cruel eye of the sun turned away from us, we would each re-compose ourselves anew, hoping only to have collected all of our parts.
Against the pillows and under sheets we would wonder with fingers, testing at the known terrains of our human landscape. Something different? A question of a fingernail that seemed too short, a toe a touch too long, our how our hands might look just a bit older. When you were told you had your mother's eyes by a Yankee aunt at Thanksgiving, you would try to hide the shiver, the unsteady shake of your hand. Your mother would studiously avoid looking at anyone.
The old days of August. These are the days of which we dare not speak.
Kristen Gilpin, April 9, 2015