The Open Window

Gillian Kessler Poetry 0 Comments

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I have never noticed how dark

your eyes can really be, lines

seeping in like water,

when you write for the first time

about our son and how you don’t

want him to grow up

I remember the story of you

crying the night before

your fourth birthday

because you wanted to stay three

forever and across town

we watch your daddy shrink

I hardly recognize him from behind anymore

pants fall to his ankles like rain to a puddle

and he shuffles and shuffles

past the bad mantras on the wall about

living for today

past the long white faces of the other

men and women,

a head on a table,

a head to a chin,

shuffle and shuffle,

through air like chicken soup and urine,

through memories of big trucks and the Jersey shore,

past your grandson and his new green football,

towards the open window,

back to being small.

***

May 2016 – Cherish
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About the Author

Gillian Kessler

Gillian Kessler can be found dancing to loud music, teaching exuberant children to appreciate language, writing in the early morning when everyone is asleep and exploring the wilds of Montana with her beautiful family. Read more about her eclectic and full life at .

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