I keep thinking of the movie I saw as a kid: “If it’s Tuesday,
this must be Rome.”
But in my case, this must be Hometown, and I’m not completely
comfortable when it is.
I don’t think I’ll ever recover from it, dreading my place
on the floor between the first and second floor, my Harry Potter cupboard
people pass on their way up or down, where she passes and sometimes pauses,
like a tease or a challenge, daring me to speech out when I’m condemned to a
vow of silence, a ledge on a personal mountain I dare not climb down from.
If it is Tuesday, I must be here, and I’m certain she’s no
more pleased by it than I am – or maybe she is, a queen on her thrown, while I
play the role of jester.
I feel the way I used to feel on Monday mornings returning
to school without my homework done, waiting for the nuns to scold me, only she’s
no nun, and I wouldn’t want her to be.
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