I spent the day working on a poem and an illustration of it in my visual journal. I hope you enjoy it:
In my dream, I accidentally threw garbage in my grandmother’s mailbox. A huge black canister veined with cracks, I closed the lid and saw the mail slot. I opened it again to clean out my food scraps and boxes lined with bitter smells, but instead I found delicate flower dresses that smelled of talc, a black silk shawl beaded with crystal stars. At the bottom was my old red sweater I wore until it unraveled. I wore it every cold day when I was 12, the year she died. It was knitted back together, the yarn so soft and warm it felt like the breath of summer. I put it on. How did it fit so well with me now gray and almost the age she died? That thought stabbed me awake. Light blazed through the window, summer’s warmth all around me.
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