Voices from the past. Close your eyes and listen. When I leave this house My time isn’t my own, says the bald man. We were going to go to Florida, says the woman in the shade. You can move to Russia, rasps a third voice. I’ve only had three beers, says another, long distance. And from her nursing home corner bed, Proud of you. Their words, now mine, as you have your bits of truth, like black beads, each bead a year, an occasion, the many occasions a necklace. You wear a circle of truth, these voices at odd moments and moments not odd. New Year’s Eve, the living room couch, midnight, hands over my eyes, I hear them, my parents who died last year.
Peter Mladinic
21
