men in caves/editing/again/home

Truth is, I can’t wait to visit them again. Justine is wearing a red dress, and the tundra has turned emerald in the brief summer. Her black hair blows around her face a little, sticking to her red lipstick. A wicker picnic basket is at her feet, filled with bread, apples, cheese, bottles of milk from the commissary.  Anna sits on a quilt a few feet away, reading a book to the children. She’d decided to hold class outside; there are no clouds. Justine asked where they were going and brought the basket.

I’m going with them. Of course they can’t see me, but I’m there, sitting on the tundra quite nearby. If I brush my hand over the ground I can feel the soft feathery leaves of the purple prairie crocus, the stiffness of the bearberries, the smooth tiny cupped yellow arctic poppies. The bits of ground that are cushioned, the muskeg, are softer than goosedown. I can feel my legs sinking into the earth, I can hear the happy shouts of the children, the musical lilt of Justine and Anna’s conversation. Milk moustaches are wiped off with backs of hands, apples are crunched into, cheese and bread are cut and passed around.

I can’t wait…

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"... all my lovers were there with me, all my past and futures."

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