You travel by train, by bus, finding sleep in hostels, parking lots, airports. The road opens before you like an empty page in your notebook. Still just a girl, you leave home at seventeen. ![]() When you wake up, you are holding your own hand. She’s holding your hand, kissing your blonde hair and flushed face. She will be there in the rain, her arms outstretched. ![]() You will take the ferry, cross bridges, run through fields and forests with your flashlight on. You will ride your bicycle through the night, through the empty streets, a crimson cape on your shoulders. You sketch plans in your diary: elaborate escape routes. “For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her” (Live)-2:25Įvery night, you dream of her. Hey hey hey! is the last thing your father screams, as the front door slams. God bless them, please, you say, imagining Jesus can hear you. Their shouting nearly drowns out your whisper, praying for the first time. ![]() In the living room, your parents may have overturned the sofa. ![]() You’re inhaling the stale air-packaged cupcakes, cookies, and crumbs. What’s hidden in the pockets of your dress? Handfuls of stones, with painted eyes. When you’re an older woman, you’ll see photographs of yourself as a child, hair in pigtails, skipping through the yard.
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