I.
It was because of the snow,
the old car skidding fast
down the side of the mountain
when something broke and we
ended up with three hours to kill.
The snow was gauze over my eyes
and the hours were the hand that tore it away.
II.
I still have the photo, its torn
top edge white and soft from decades
of rubbing. A man's legs in rolled-up jeans,
his hands on a toddler's shoulders. She
in a sun suit and sneakers. Above her head
is a void where a face that could only be
imagined belonged.
III.
Was 18 years long enough for
a lie to be ingrained, to solidify
the fictional beginnings of a girl with
an imposter's name? The story
of the photo was a fiction. The missing
face was convenient.
IV.
The lie fell hard and dangerous as the snow
on the mountain. She held my hands with tears
in her eyes, offered a black leather jacket
with a name I'd never heard embroidered
in the pocket.
I left the jacket behind.
His name meant nothing to me.
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Published in The Rumpus, July 2016
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II and IV ***
His name meant nothing to me. ****
A soft lie turned to ice. *
The sorrow and hard cruelty of abandonment.*
Thanks for reading and commenting Rachna, Matt, and Daniel.
*
*Would you consider turning this into a long flash or a short story, just for me? Keeping the fine poem, of course?
Great opening line. I second Nonnie's suggestion. *
Thanks, Nonnie and John.
I so rarely write flash fiction but, yes, this could be turned into one. Dialogue is my weakest point, I'm afraid. But I'll think about it, Nonnie. Thank you for your support! xo
Sam, thank you for the star and for your reading time! xo
So cold and powerful.
Thanks, Kitty