Cassidie Shoyzen Miller

rocky coastline

By nightfall, the package I had had was lifted from my fingers. I didn’t mind so much. Nor by the following dawn when I had seen my photographs themselves had been by an interloper forged. Even as the footsteps taken in the snow had been replaced by another’s pair of boots, I felt no threat. Like ribbons in the wind I had let these go, let these drift away and fly. What I minded rather was the cobwebbed world of my privacy had been invaded, had been tramped upon. Somebody’s hands had rubbed themselves against the grout and tile of my simple and peaceful morning nakedness. For to be discovered in this world at large is the last thing on Earth I had ever dreamt could be. The mice that scuttle in the walls, the summertime fireflies that flash and yearn, the great open ruthless maw of the Ocean, these are the corners of Existence that had appealed to me. Old Russian women their thick coats unbuttoned and open facing the warm gray light I had been told when I was young was their second winter their eyes closed in the park sunning themselves alone I had believed then to be the only nostalgia in my life I had ever hoped for. Where then is my December? I had wished once to be the milkweed seeds the Monarch on its southward venture would breakfast upon, helping those wings on their voyage afar, perhaps to reach the green wilds of Mexico, or perhaps not. I had wished to be the paint peeling off a barn door in some local farmer’s field abandoned. I had wished only if I wished anything to be, to be but the tiniest pinprick of human light disappearing into the Universe of obscurity, a place where only my namelessness would endure…

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