Somewhere: 28 Rue St. Jacques
Or eating spam fried rice in the courtyard
after kindergarten, and playing cowboys
with Thierry, the kid next-door. We shared toys,
but not comics. Written language was hard
to decipher, unlike the spoken. I
never captured the nuances, and lost
the rest over the years. Today the cost
eludes me, like moths fluttering by. Try
to recall that particular morning light,
how it glanced off the French snow, and the
way our mother smiled at breakfast, no trace
of sadness, yet, the lines marking our heights
rising along the wall, limbs of a tree
we’d never climb, out there, somewhere, in space.
* * *
This was originally drafted during the August 2015 Tupelo Press 30/30 Challenge. I was never satisfied with it, and didn’t see any reason to revise. But those memories are worth sharing!
O at the Edges 
I traced those lines of my daughters growing from the door in the place we lived longest right before we moved out. You’ve reminded me it’s still here somewhere..I always meant to turn it into some kind of art. But I really would have liked to take the actual door. (K)
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That door would be precious!
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I did think of taking it, but was worried the landlord would keep the deposit. Just one of many regrets…
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I’M satisfied with it — completely — if that counts. It’s lovely, Bob.
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It counts the most, Cate! Thank you! 🙂
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The unfinished past can seem more complete, more everything it was in and of itself — including its incompleteness — only if/when we ever get enough distance from its contained, unassailable perfection… But that it’s still unfinished for you speaks to your timelessness, your transcendent sensibilities that inform your luminous voice.
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The past is complete, yet it’s not. So weird to feel that way…
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I was moved by this poem.
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Thank you, Liz. Childhood was full of wonder!
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Mine was, too. I feel very fortunate that it was.
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