bright splashes of sound and smell laugh in my face as I drag a finger through the dusty residue of last night’s dreams thoughts reaching eagerly for the edge of our windowsill
voices ring through my sister’s room and small feet chase the goats of Rue 3 I stick out my tongue because the air is warm and salty and I am glad to be alive
my feet find their way to the kitchen and I smile up at a dripping face “here” I wriggle my hips into the skirt held out for me stiff with the sun and wind of Harmattan
the trucks begin to arrive shouting hello to the watchman and we run bare feet slapping across the cement, skidding to a stop in the sudden sand as I sneak a look behind me before ducking through the doors
whip the willow is new for us but the music is already in our veins so we listen our way into the patterns on the floor rhythm pulling the room in dizzy circles lock elbows and spin faster crooked grin we could dance all night
later the roof is a breathless purple leaning out over the courtyard, the moon is nowhere to be found quiet footsteps pad on the stairs I turn around and you point so we look up at the sky and pick a star to wish on
…
an alarm clock rings in the distance my eyes fly open groping for the mosquito net and I turn my face towards the window, but there’s a wall instead confused snow drifting quietly to the ground outside a new window over there I am lost and this must be Minnesota
we are done writing for this summer our words trickled out in cautious hope as she wove the squirrels into our story and he stood, refusing to let another person leave. I traced the interstate with two fingers in the misty glass, and again in the small oval that was my window three planes later I’m rolling down a mountain on my hands and knees a small red dot waits on my screen. sleep well, banana.
it’s a funny sort of feeling of longing for places you know you cannot return to and even if you could it wouldn’t be the same.
it’s a funny sort of feeling to dream of a life you once had one where every bit of you almost wished you were somewhere else (far away) that you could start over again and then you wake up and find that you got your wish and you are no happier
it’s a funny sort of feeling wishing you could turn back time relive part of your life just so you could have what you used to but you know you can’t because Time has only one Master
it’s a funny sort of feeling when you start to forget and eventually all you have left of places you once knew like the back of your hand are bits and pieces of sound and smell fragments of faces and wisps of songs you used to listen to every day but now now you can’t stand to anymore because all you hear is everything you used to have
it wasn’t perfect no, far from it but we somehow found perfection through wakeup calls and muddy afternoons through endless nights and sleepy skies through glowing embers and fiery grins and the pitchblack sky raining streaks of colour chaos intertwining with shouts of glee and falling asleep to floating circlets of colour and the biting cold to muffled giggles and whispered: ‘nights it wasn’t perfect, no but it was perfecter than I could’ve ever asked for
There will be no trace of me, here after I have left The colours of my paintings on the walls are not stains the laughter of the memories won’t stay forever and everything that ever made this space mine is transportable
I knew enough when I came here to plan it this way
So you’re standing at the door smiling for the hope of a future but I can feel the suitcase handle in my fingers and I don’t remember myself anymore
Does that make me a bad person? If I have shuttered my mind and heart and soul, folded my memories away into dusty boxes and stacked them in the back of the attic, is that weakness?
All I know is you have never left like how I have left and you can’t understand – impermanence flows through my veins as the very blood of my only hope for survival
So I will smile and wave at you in the doorway and gather up my belongings to carry myself away in
I can never return because nothing is ever the same again
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