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.