her shoes
I will look at them and be five, eight, ten years old again, watching her dress to go to a New Year's Party, or to put on a production, or even just to go to church. I can smell Chanel 5, I can watch her Merle Norman Satin Cinnamon lipstick go on creamy smooth. I can see her smile, do up the back of my dress, sing me to sleep with soft hymns and a children's song I've never heard since.
I can see the shoes on the floor where she left them when she came in, exhausted by the sheer height of them. I can curl up beside her and get her to tell me the story of the day I was adopted, for the millionth time. I can laugh at her fear of snakes. I can hear her speak of religion and remember believing. Memories of belief are a strange and sad thing.
When did it all go awry? When did I stop running my fingers through her teased and perfectly molded hair? When did I stop being a small child padding barefoot and excited down the hall to see her?
Are there still big green caterpillars in the past? I need one right now to crawl over my skin, almost as much as I need to eat cherries in the shade of a big birch tree and watch my brothers play in a blue plastic kiddie pool.
Haunted, haunted, haunted.
