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Five years after he died, my Father came back. I found him sitting in the middle of my room, in a straight-backed chair, looking out the window. It was still dark, the curtains were drawn but I could sense he was seeing something. Dad? He did not turn around at first. I held my breath and closed my eyes. Mili, he said softly and I opened them again. Mili, is it snowing? He was still facing the window, his hands on his lap; small, delicate hands of an artist. Or a child. I stood behind him and gently touched his shoulder. I felt the coarse fabric of his jacket but the sensation was fleeting, my fingers caressed air. Slowly he turned and looked at me with the eyes I see in the mirror every morning. Our eyes. Yes, it’s snowing, I answered before opening the curtain. The street was deserted. Quiet. Snow-less. And then, as I looked, flakes began appearing and disappearing like fireflies, and soon the air was dancing, swirling, and I heard him say: there! It snowed all day. Perhaps it was just for a minute. Time ebbed. It muted and dissipated the light, and soon it was dark again. I was alone. Walking past the empty chair to the window, I hesitated. The curtain opened onto a quiet street, the pavement diluted in white…

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From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—
Alone, By Edgar Allan Poe
Art: Eleni Nikologlou; Photography, “In the Shadow of Memory”

 

How wonderful it would be

to stop counting time

forget one’s age

one’s height

one’s past

no hours or minutes

just moon and sun

and endless freedom

to discover

one’s age

one’s wisdom

the world

Art: Salvador Dali, The Persistence of Memory (1931)

flutter

 

the longing came suddenly

alighting like a bird

wings spread as far

as the heart could see

and in the silence

that followed

the great revelation

it spoke –

your name

 

Armata

You said I was wonderful

You said I could do anything

You said I could do no wrong

You said you loved me

You said I was beautiful

Then you closed your eyes forever

… and I disappeared.

©aother

LudmilaArmata

Art: Ludmila Armata

 

Suspended between here and now

In a non-existent space

I hover

and weep in frustration

Inert and idle

Unsure and forlorn

I hover

and wait

Centuries and galaxies

pass by

Unseen worlds beckon

But time has stopped for me

Only the ticking sound remains

and counts down

ad infinitum.

dali_memory

Art: Salvador Dali

 

BrokenMirrorChild

Mirror cracks

Reflection scarred

Eyes averted from the shape of time

Memories float like shadows

Linger and die

Scattered shards of broken dreams

Litter the mind

Betrayed and forsaken by no one

And self

Hope rising ghostly pale

Welcomed and feared

Life suspended on frail threads

Heartbeat lifts and falls

Straining to the sound

Of one hand clapping.

 

©aother