The Reading Specialist

Pulling down the window shade
of page, pink emery board pressed
beneath her fingers, she reveals
each line, each line unraveled,
each undeciphered word, pure sound,
ripples of phoneme without meaning
crackle on the dry parchment.

"Its from, I think its from, my daughter,"
she says, "she's having a baby."
"They'll come and show me, maybe
tomorrow." But the secret of spring,
so many springs ago, is caught in the crease
on the blue page with the little yellow flowers,
worn through from too many years of renewal.

Desperately, she tries to refold
the torn halves of faded event;
but, too late; the sounds spill
their vacant contents onto the floor.
For a moment, recognition catches
in her throat. Then, voiceless,
the parchment shudders, …erasing.

The Reading Specialist (fr. Stewards of Mortality)

©Red Slider, 1997, 2006 all rights reserved.

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