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the white table

The days are not long. The nights are short. Guitars are hiding in cases, with scraps of paper tucked inside. The pen is full. There is a fresh notebook, with creamy pages. The little white desk is in the middle of the living room, a cascade of receipts and laundry perched on it.

I clean it off, have lunch as it stares back at me. This focal point, this fulcrum where my thoughts become real, this cheap folding table from Ikea. It is familiar, and patient.

an anniversary



A woman sat in the living room some years ago, practically a stranger. She shared the intimate details of a traumatic incident she had survived, an ongoing nightmare she could not have swerved to avoid. It hit her head-on. She had red hair, and freckles.
"At first, you are in the pool, barely treading water." She said. "Then, eventually you pull yourself out of the pool. Some years later, you can say there is a pool over there."
She pointed towards the windows when she said this last part.

The wound heals, but there will always be a scar.






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