The open door

By myself in the tiny guest room, I felt transported in time.  There I stood in the hallway, a little girl again, peeking through the open door as my mother sat on the edge of her bed, the shades pulled down and her body hunched over, crying for the drunken husband who had hit her once again.  Watching this scene time and again had taught me one thing: make sure to close the door all of the way.  Only then did I sit on the edge of the bed, and cry for the husband who had forced me to leave him.

we have survived the most

fantastic of things

only to renounce our immortality

I can still hear you whispering

please wait for me