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Bowing under whatever harsh lawmaker sentences our brightest moments be thrown into the past forever, a woman clings to her memory by cleaning it with her mind, washing over every crevice and detail on her hands and knees, using her wistful touch to keep it new. Or almost new, as every now and then it becomes imperceptibly amended, unintentionally tweaked, even as the garden itself grows older and the world falls more distant into the future.
Somewhere under these floorboards is the imprint of two bodies rolling in the grass. Here she once stood among the flowers, with another's hand in hers. The world can pull her body away from the moment where she stood in her husband's young, strong arms, but her mind will only come kicking and screaming, lustering and cleaning. [Pete Bradt] |
