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Nothing is
lost.
The past
surfaces
from the
salted tide pool
of oblivion
over
and over
again,
and here it is
now—
complete
with ironed
sheets, old sins,
and pewter
candlesticks.
My mother and
aunts approach,
shaking the
water from
their freshly
washed hair
like aging
mermaids.
They have been
here
all along,
sewing
or reading a
book, waiting
for the wand
of memory
to touch them. |
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