Somewhere in my past I remember a white lace curtain with tiny holes woven into floral designs. I liked standing on the couch and peering through the openings, seeing the world outside as a white blur. When the breeze whispered through the screen door, the lace fluttered, causing the shapes on the other side to morph into shivering images of color.
I’m back in that time, wrapped in that lace, where I recognize voices, but the faces are hard to make out.
It was fun back when I was five. It was mysterious.
But now, in the solitary place I find myself, it is very lonely.