On my walk home on Tuesday night, I found pieces of memories hanging on a colorful tree. It’s a poem, a song, a shadow, the torn plastic bag shivering against the wind, the long shadows of Dekalb, the music of your touch blowing against my windsheld on 95, and the places that no longer had names. I buried you, but haven’t forgotten about you. It’s December again. It’s the thought of you that feared me, and sometimes I wonder if I should walk away from the end of this beginning.
Advertisement
