They probably remember me as a smell or a pattern. Perhaps I am a hand or one of the hands that rubbed their backs as they fell asleep on blue cots. I am fairly sure that puzzles and science lessons have disappeared from their memories. Very elaborate projects may have melted into a cheerful turn of hand. A Chinese dragon we labored on for weeks is a splash of happy color experienced in the moment before sleep.
by Kimberly Wilder
Filed under: Long Island Politics, Recommended Poetry Tagged: | Uncategorized
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