By Sarah Kessell
It’s in the back of my mind,
Memories of me being here,
Vague, blurry, eerie, faint,
Racks of dresses,
Worn out sneakers,
Children’s books alongside scholar’s references.
I was six years old,
I had visited here twice (I think),
If only Grandmother were here,
She’d set the record straight,
Her voice I can hardly recall now,
Do I have to forget, to grow?
I peer through the glass,
Winter sunlight on my back,
To what was the op shop,
A gutted cadaver,
The brown carpet now mouldy,
Decaying, yet stagnant.
Two stores are also empty,
The three united in neglect,
Waiting for their rebirth,
Or for an earthquake,
Time urges me to move on,
Reflection is a waste of precious daylight to him.
