Clinging like dampened cloth, the memory has adhered. Movement becomes difficult, breathing labored, a bead descends from brow. There was a time when no one had been known, acknowledged, the recollection of it has lodged uncomfortably; like a splinter nestled nastily within the skin.
Skipping hand in hand like springtime children, maypole merriment, braiding fancifulness into one another’s being. Shared thoughts and fears, hiding beneath blankets as secrets are revealed. Panic, a reversal, an abandonment complete; like a basket placed at an orphanage’s back door.
Another summer comes to a close with a certain solemnity, like the curtains drawn on a play without audience. The marigolds waft as winds bluster, hither and yon. A path meanders through fields of yellow florescence, a butterfly falls, along and alone; like a leaf cast from a dying tree.