Closing in on four years’ writing and four thousand things to say. And why? Perhaps no children left behind brings different meaning to a single life and seeking purpose somehow dares a notch be cut in one tree, another planted in its place as footprints wash away with wind and rain meant to do just that.
Cracklin’ Rosie on the radio driving round the loop that partways borders on the river. Feeling the cottage shake from twenty dancers doing steps in time that summer we were so young and yet adults alone and still together. The beat of drums felt deep inside the belly; the beat of feet that shook the air down to the beach and tossed around by tide came in again.
Memories cluster to a sound; the rhythm of the parties in the night, the summer day I gladly lost virginity.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology