La Llorona

Drifting in and out of here or there

Monday, October 23, 2006

My child one

Brown, cinnamon smell in the kitchen. She is a wave in my heart. Her lashes play with my cheek remembered. I cried when.
She did not sing. She floated confused in the darkness. A last wail of maman in the night. The cold took her smallness fast.
The mud she loved didn't see her.
But I remember my little girl, playing outside in the straw and the warm mud of spring. It caked her hair and her toes as she giggled in delight. And I had to laugh I could not scold.

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