I don’t know who this person is or even who I am, coming off
of near blindness to find sunshine in my face. And a voice on the phone, and a
whisper in my ears, and an extra beat to my heart.
I grow old, I grow old, I still drink my tea cold, counting
life not in tea spoons but in weekly stories I must have ready by deadlines.
Sometimes I wake up and still think I’m dreaming, rather
than dreaming that I’m awake.
It’s how I feel now.
Half abandoned. The last family member of my so called
generation gone.
And then a voice my ear and movement at work, and this sense
of change.
I don’t know who this person is.
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