It is unseasonably cold in New Orleans. I feel like I would
know this from the light on the wall even if I could not feel this fact. The
wind, in gusts, sounds cold.
I am looking at these blank walls. One wall is hardly blank
because the sunlight is flashing on it. There are the two empty hooks where the
painting on paper hung.
It is late (for me), 9 in the morning. My mind is already
full, cluttered. My children are up and talking and moving through the house. I
am sitting on my bed trying to look at blank walls. Children abhor a vacuum.
I want the vacuum to tell me something but walls speak in soft voices. Tomorrow, when the house is quiet I will be back here listening.
I want the vacuum to tell me something but walls speak in soft voices. Tomorrow, when the house is quiet I will be back here listening.
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