Songs of Childhood

 

To the passage of time. Can it be a dream, a song? An invocation? How far under dusty veils and through broken gates must one progress to reach that Neverland, floating farther away every second? In the mirror the face’s plane seems empty, a canvas dissimilar to the intrinsic former self. Roses reappear in the garden, dust continues to settle on the once new picture frames. Fear isn’t new, fear is the child’s known terrain even hidden under the dining room table. Consciousness of fear is new, the song of youth plays on a different wavelength, another altitude is reached. Fear: indistinguishable in a photograph, then and now, frosted by forgotten temperatures or not. Where, underneath, am I? Am I the former or the present? Strange new faces hover through, the old ones continue on without bearing any resemblance to their old selves either. I yearn for a sleigh, to fit into clothes now much too small.

And why? Because life flowed into the windows with a different light, and everything was lighter and a golden blessing. The sky the lightest of blues, my body small and light and ready to roll down hills. Our house emptier, happier, the blinds always making beautiful shadows on the white walls. The world and us: decidedly cloudier, heavier, almost baroque in comparison to how simple we once were. And so I long for those days of haziness, of a long remembered dream…

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