The Shore You Reachby Loren Keller |
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I’d spread me like a cloak across the roily mudpond a dark grey morning, and let you dance across, but the soaked soil of the puddle’s stark far shore would probably be lost in fog, and bullfrog voices bobbling from the pond would croak cross warnings: “Wade.” “Don’t cloak-dance.” “Wade.” Because the bobbling bullfrogs know, and teach, that soon or late the fog lifts, and the shore you reach by dancing is surely not the same shore you reach when you wade.
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Shopping Cartby Ryki Zuckerman |
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i see her lean heavily on the metal bar handle, i see two dozen other white-haired elderly ladies in the same posture, navigating the aisles in the grocery store; she peruses the stacked can goods, the miles of too many choices, looking for the familiar brand, in the familiar package, the one her mother taught her, the recipe she cooked for decades for the children, and, then, sometimes for the children’s children. i’ve been in her home, or homes just like it, after the children or the children’s children moved her to a nursing home, or after the final trip to the hospital.
always, a hoard of old greeting cards sent by the children, or the children’s children, or from friends, now long gone.
always, a clutch of white gloves or doilies, now available to the public for a pittance.
someday, someone will be pawing through the remnants of my life when the estate sale is held. if i have any warning, i’ll burn my cards and gloves first and dance around the bonfire |