Not like there’s a whole lot there. It is what it is, my memory – glossy, apparently endless, and stripped bare. But there seem to be windows, areas the light creeps in, and doorways – entries to room after room of possibilities. If I could get in there, could move past this moment of glimpsing, find the courage to carry myself forward (or is it back?). Remains to be seen, here – me at the cusp, in full view, just on the verge, of remembering.
What just happened?
N Filbert 2012
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