spaces between walls. objects and their history. memories, knotted to everything collected here. it is april and the house is empty. there is snow on the ground still, somehow. wandering alone throughout, you are certain you hear echoes. there is what leaves and then what does not when you lose someone; the shared history retained in mutually familiar things. senses that trigger a sort of travel through time -- fabric softener, garlic, the coffeemaker, ordinary sights and smells, items. you spend x years of your life assigning memories to experiences, designating a section of your existence for storing the details and emotions attached to them good or bad, and when you lose someone none of that goes with it. the objects remain in the space you share with them and so do the meanings theyve earned. this moment or that moment, funeral or first kiss, fully remembered and realized in the tendrils and folds and lightning sparks of the unconscious every time one intrudes upon the landscape you occupy. the slightest hint of familiar scenery, the faintest smell, the feel of the air in the desert some years back, the dimensions of the rooms of the house or any common touch, all beckoning back with accidental reminisce moments that shape an absence, that almost bring it back to you there or else bring you back to it. trips you take backward and forward through history. you are wandering alone in the spaces between the walls and you are certain you hear echoes. it is april and there is snow on the ground.
Posted on: Wed, 26 Mar 2014 09:46:17 +0000
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