I’m not there; I can’t know if she is there or not, repeating history from that weekend she spent in that place, before the supper storm changed it all, and with whom she is with this time or if she did indeed repeat history, and gone back to celebrate the nation’s birth in a majestic hotel near the sea.
I am not there, so I don’t know, and would not know even if
I was there except by some fluke of fate that might put us face to face in a
place with have both gone to in the past, a sacred place in which we celebrate
survival, this aspect of living that allows us to go back in time if only in
our minds, reliving something that seemed so important then, as it does not,
she selling sea shells by the seashore again, with only these old images in my
head of what it must be like, with her, in that place, then and now.
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