dollhouse fragments

“I used to love the way the room was white, Grandma’s room was all white. I used to imagine that heaven was all white.”

White like heaven, like God was there, all the world made of his white robes, his white hair. So much white hair, like rain. White. White. Chalk, like chalk, absorbing yet repelling. Invisible, every color rolled into white. Every bitter day, heaved sigh etched into the walls. Chalk white of the writing on the board. Chalk white so it looked clean. Chalk white, waiting for color. Waiting to hold the color. Grandma’s nubby summertime bedspread. The bedspread she used all year around. The blue white of her reading lamp. The whites of her grey eyes. The white in her silver hair. White. White. White  was all he could do, leaving space for color someday.

White of the looming sun. White light only son. White, the dread in your head when you close your eyes. So strong. So gone.

© 2006

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I'm a rock-n-roller poet who left the Big Apple for the Big Sky Desert where I've been letting it be and grooving with universal love, singing to the gods, dancing with the muses and bicycling with dreamtime messengers. I like altering my reality through imagination, movement, breath, and makin' stuff.

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