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Purgatory - Sunday, Feb. 10, 2019
Saturday, Jan. 25, 2003 @ 8:16 pm
I can see.
All I can see over and over are the pink roses opening up next to him, fast forward, green leaves, pink fleshy roses, and a faceless him. Because of him they open. Leaves and hands. Pink petals. Then there are the grassy yellow bluffs. The seabreeze blows steady, and it bends all the grasses over in undulating yellow-white waves. It's like Hornby or St. Johns: Rocky and treeless. He's standing out on the edge, or is it me? All I know is that arms are stretched wide and that we're about to jump. Fly. Believe it. Superman. And the rose petals turn and unfold. Hands and leaves. I'm seeing the same hands carry white china dishes to the table. Everything is doused in powder-blue light, morning light, softened by the sheer kitchen curtains. Chrome stars, blue paint, white dishes. Two pairs of legs come running in, twining around me and my hands that carry a white pitcher of milk. There is a boy; there is a girl. I'm gathering them up. Gathered up, I hold their hands.