february08...

it is very strange to think about that house. A child's house. With children's rooms and children's pets and children's toys in the bathroom; in that calm aftermath of Christmas that I can still vaguely remember. That house is a different thing for me. Their entire lives will be imprinted on those walls. And one day, I will barely remember it. I only remember pieces of it now. The colour of the bedspread, the quiet, the half finished projects. The broken chair. Stars clearer. A small door.When he is there, will he think of me? I imagine him glimpsing me in the rooms, some kind of flickering ghost of summer in a red cotton skirt and yellow shoes, trembling; a girl too far away to be anything but a postcard, which is how he liked me. I hope that he keeps the postcard in a box, unaddressed, with no stamp. I hope he takes it out to look at, every now and again.