Fukushima
A fault line in my heart trembled. Tremors along my spinal cord tumbled memories down. A wave of longing crashed upon the coastline of my memories. Remembered faces collapsed. An inorganic fever rose, and the memories were displaced to cold and crowded halls. And here I am, still digging through debris for missing memories worried I might forget a place, a name, a face, a street I used to pace, a park, a swing, a child I used to teach.
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MontrealPoet
Hélas, c’est fait, quelle est donc ma consigne? Un mot anglais que je ne comprends pas: Mon père était du pays de la vigne. Mon poste, non, je ne te laisse pas. - François-Xavier Garneau (1809-1866)
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