Updated: Mar 29

My six-year-old self, bewildered in the gloomy

classroom discovered how to travel home. By staring,

I faded the wall of textbook-sized window panes to the left of my wee desk

so that the chain-link fence inched closer until it crossed my eyes.

When the time-skin broke, a cozy portal opened:

my sister, Marsha, hugged Geoff, her tan baby

into the gray-green fabric on her hip.

She welcomed me with light

spilling like a fountain from her heart.

I approached, brushed my dove hand

across Geoff’s silky foot, and he chuckled, but

I was never able to shinny through the wicket. The teacher,

only a shade to me, would break the spell and cast

me back to the chalk dust. Lost.

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