And Then You Are This Person

Parents pass away slowly after their death; come back as your face in a mirror. Our days are a code written on the blind side of our skin. You watch yourself coming out of a childhood bedroom eyes still wet from a foreboding dream, see yourself getting lost in a dark theater knowing, even as a child, that would not be the last time. You grew up too fast and almost disappeared. A friend dies in your arms, you take her on your Suzuki to the Thai river market, drop her ghost into the Peng river; hope that it will eventually find its way back to Arkansas. People you have known remain as hand-shadows, still pulling broken strings on a wall of time. And then you are this person, and all you can do is watch from your many makeshift storm-shelters.