Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

i could still hear her sing

it was an old white farmhouse
comforted by an ancient oak tree
my uncle louis had hung himself from
in ’73

behind it
there grew
a field of hereafter
and endless possibilities

finally a daughter born
to a man with three sons
and a woman who had done it all before

my father refused to allow my mother to name me daphne

the top floor was a heaven
at the top of the stairs

my tiny self
was too afraid of ascension

the corner suite playroom
was my domain
an addition seemingly built to suit my whimsy

a sea of dolls
and tupperware shape sorters
i plowed upon a yellow tractor

the remaining rooms were filled
with my father’s absence long before he died
floral prints
abiding beside
his brown leather rocking chair

siblings a decade older trying to accommodate this new little blight

my mother lived
in the bathroom

i could still hear her sing

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