March 12, 2014 § 2 Comments
She waited on that bench. There are places that come back to you. She just had to wait.
How often must one tell a story to believe it? How often must one listen to it to forget?
There were names written on that bench.
For whom had these people carved their names? Who was their reader?
Maybe she could choose one of these names. Stand up and walk away named like that. A name has always a story. The story would be hers then.
A man stopped right in front of her and looked at her. She held her breath. Was he her reader?
Some places come back to you. You just have to wait. Your name can bring them back. A stranger can bring back your name.
Come on, darling. Come on, Helen, let’s go home.
My dear, on that bench
I’ve forgotten all the poems
I’ve written and read.
Tagged: stories, tweets, twitter
Benches are interesting. If I’m tired I rest. If I’m viewing I let my eyes roam over the entire picture before me. If I’m waiting, I twitch and shift impatiently hardly ever calmly. I like your writing, it’s about life..
Dear Edgar, you’ve left so often kind comments under my posts. I’d like to thank you for that. It’s always very encouraging to have a feedback.
I’m really glad that what you find here inspires you to lovely thoughts like these above.
Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:
You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. ( Log Out / Change )
You are commenting using your Twitter account. ( Log Out / Change )
You are commenting using your Facebook account. ( Log Out / Change )
You are commenting using your Google+ account. ( Log Out / Change )
Connecting to %s
Notify me of new comments via email.
Notify me of new posts via email.
« The Dance Group
Letter to a Young Lady »
You are currently reading Troy at I was not born in English.
Blog at WordPress.com.