Short short, I have been super busy, and have not had much time to write, but wrote this little vignette today, and thought I'd share.
The train has left the station, read newspapers blow across
the platform and onto the tracks. it is like a sepia photograph- a
daguerreotype. But there, in the
corner lies a hat, red and forgotten.
It sits like a stereotype, a red rose of romance, of forgotten love and
longing, unrequited love on a far away shore. I wander over to it, thinking of the missed train, missed
goodbyes and promises, missed movie endings, and fairytale kisses. I pick up the hat and think- in another
story this would be the closing scene, that story would be a tragedy, no dry
eye would be left in the audience.
But this hat is a stranger’s and reminds me only of my mother laugh as I
stepped out of her arms, and onto the train.
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