Three little girls

My mother, I’d lay around the living room floor soaking in the warmth of natural light flowing in from the windows. Her, in that old brown reclining chair, smoking, drinking, rocking.

The world is different.

I’m different. The old me is the old you. The new me, something you never had a chance to know.

I’ll never know.

The early years.

The beginning. Where it all went wrong.

Mental health. Abuser. Lover. Husband. Lost in sadness.

Years.

My own family. Did you understand the energy? Not possible.

She died. Three children. Three little girls. Helpless. Homeless. A father. A stranger. Where does time abandon us to go? The flowers were yellow and purple, wilder than our family? More peaceful.

Outside.

An encounter with the past. It was all surface level. Appearance. Sound. Space.

Expression and emotion. Who knew anyone? Lacking depth. Connection. Honesty.

To you, about you,