A Hundred Gourds 2:4 September 2013
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Deb Baker - USA


Sitting on the warm bricks of my front steps, yesterday’s April mist feels far off and I think about the way some memories seem so vivid until we speak them aloud and someone else recalls his version and our own details don't stick. The interjection is wax on the canvas – it settles into the pores of our recollection and resists our attempts to paint over it.

Reading a book whose author interviewed centenarians about their lives decades before, when they served in World War I, I try to remember my 17, 18, 19 year-old self. She yearned to be someone, to do something important. I don’t remember clearly a single conversation she had at the time; no event takes precedence over others in the jumble of images and emotions that stir up and settle in layers.

Japanese maple—
leaves uncurl
as they always have

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