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Written in the Hours Between |
I keep coming across random memories
scrawled in notebooks allover my house
drunken and disorderly ramblings
childhood traumas and imagined slights
every time I turn over a scrap of paper, I find
the first half of a story about my favorite cat (she died of lung cancer when I was four)
my first husband (he came out of the closet and left when I was twenty-five)
the time my sister dug the uncapped end of a baton into my forehead (we were six and eight, I was older)
watching my son struggling for breath in an incubator when was one day old)
how much I wanted to break things off with Husband #2
one year before we were married
who is this person
leaving their life lying around
for all the wrong people to read?
copyright 2009
Holly
Day |
