Echoes
“The past is never dead. It isn’t even past.”—William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun
I carry my dead with me everywhere I go.
Their voices don’t fade, they speak, clear as a bell,
like when my aunt told me to get my river house and we saw it that day, made an aggressive offer, and live in it now.
Or my dad, saying “I wouldn’t if I were you” when I think I can get away with something.
Grandaddy telling me he’s never heard of Aunt Lanta but knows Uncle Lanta when I mispronounce Atlanta.
Gloria ordering a cocktail
And you, even though you’re not dead. I still see you standing there, promising to catch me, swearing you won’t let me fall.
I still feel all of it.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
I'm a subversive weirdo nerd witch who loves rocks. Intrusive rhyme bothers me. Some of my fiction may have provoked divorce proceedings in another state.😈
My words are mine. Suggest ai use and get eviscerated.
MA English literature, CofC
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Comments (1)
Free of sarcasm, brimming and bursting with sincerity. This was beautiful kiddo. Truly.