Moving

The van, yawning doors clipped to the sides, steel ramps extended; a receptacle, waiting.

Then rolled on handcarts, carried in tired arms, the house disgorged of things: A refrigerator no longer cold, just a box; books and boxes, toys and trinkets, beds, couches, the tools of who we are; the doors flipped closed; nothing is left behind.

A house is space, air and light inside walls, nothing more.

We transport all we brought. The glimmering, scattered trace, specks of us across time and distance, lodged in protected places, carried.

We pass through space, wrapped in our shield, launched and spun past Jupiter and Neptune, twisting toward the endless everything seeking the dust of ourselves, the who we are changed by light years.

We touch, a breath shared; a scent, a taste remains. Nothing is left behind.

The silk of your hand in mine.

About michaelstephendaigle

I have been writing most of my life. I have written at least three complete novels, have three others started and on my website michaelstephendaigle.com is the draft chapter of the latest effort,"The Swamps of Jersey."
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