moved and shimmered, enveloping
the polluted river in a silky fog.
How our skin itched and crawled when we
pulled ourselves up onto the rocky bank,
and rubbed ourselves raw
with stiff, line-dried towels.
How our clothes clung and rolled up
against our clammy skin as we tugged them on,
and how we scrubbed our arms energetically
to try and tame the flocks of goose pimples
that hovered there.
I could write about who you were, then,
or where you've gone.
Or I could write about nothing at all.
Rachel Westfall
January 4, 2012
10 comments:
somewhere in between what you write and what you don't write, whole worlds are made and perhaps destroyed(?) certainly story is.
xo
erin
I think so too, Erin. I want to hear the rest of the story, but I wasn't able to grasp it just yet.
So so beautiful, Rachel. It gives me goose bumps to read, so resonant with longing and loss.
So much is said without saying it.
I love the title.
I hope not nothing; I hope you aren't tempted by writing nothing. This is wonderfully tactile and the sounds plink into the ear... good to see you back. :)
Later We Moved Away
Why we swam in crap
I'm not sure, polluted streams
were the only ones
we knew in those days.
(A Small Stone to come, thank you dear)
Beautiful! I love the feeling of 'knowing' it, without it having been said. (But, still wanna read more.)
So very clear, the image. So very touching, the feel of it. Sigh.
Blessings and Bear hug for the new year.
When you 'write'about it, you make it all come so vividly alive. The words/experiences become immediately FELT experiences. That is indeed a GIFT, my friend!
I've chosen your blog for the Liebster Blog Award! Come to my house to check it out.
One.
Lin
Ahh, thank you, dear ones!
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