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Tag Archives: Phoebe Marrall
for my therapist There was no comforting, or warming, when he went away. The leave-taking was short. It narrowed further as the door closed. The sessions rubbed. Reddened and exhausted, my eyes closed over what absence was left me. My … Continue reading
In wan sunlight, silent, chalked and vined, the house simply was. Like an old woman it bore itself into the morning: fidgeting with pigeons on its roofs, and winking at the light with a pane broken through by some old … Continue reading
It was the year of Kate Smith singing broadly, a big world wrapped around a little world, which would eclipse it in the end. The War came, ungrasped by us children, me at least. Likewise came convoys wheeling past like … Continue reading
We were the good children of 1944. In those classroom days we were mostly smart, and sat in desks secured in lines. Then some of us went away and settled like dust in different classrooms, eager to be liked, high … Continue reading
There is labor in all of it. Grainy minutes, pinpricks of sun, wayward bugs and words passing slowly. I hunch for breath. Can I not do something? Escape? Brush away aphids, walk faster before the dusk of memories overtakes me? … Continue reading