You mentioned, once, a trip you took in time. A childhood place where you hoped to find a long-ago laugh. Sound dissipates, and while yesterday’s waves linger in new configurations, happiness is not always waiting.

I remember this as I review the list of places I shall not—because I cannot—return. One weighs the molding impress against the promise of fresh paint and strange voices.

But you know I have a leaky memory, and it is not the crispness of then I seek, but the pieces of me I left behind: a coin, chewed gum, string from my ever-fraying sweaters.
And the other places, where so much is invested.

What is the fear of the overly known?

I have not yet learned not to fear disappointment, and I marvel at those who have. One approaches promises with trepidation. It is only untried youth that believes “you will have so much fun,” and I have already confessed my distaste for “fun.”

One cannot anticipate fascination, nor can one predict what will become enshrined.
You laugh at my love for street benches and brightly colored doors, my faith in the healing power of spring grass and fresh cement. And you wonder if I shall stop returning to you.

4 thoughts on “Shrines

  1. Deep – I feel sad but not sad – I wish……………

    I would find words to write of myself and not about others – One gets tired of “reporting” and “repeating” and seeks original words when really there arent any are there?

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