Nothing so dramatic, I guess, that yellow bouquet dropped on the subway steps. No lovers quarrel thrown, just the slip of an elbow, and fallen unnoticed.
It seems that I have kept a room for you in my thoughts, your own bed, your own books, the ubiquitous scent of lavender. I visit now again to see if you are still there. You always are. I find that all along I have enjoyed the idea of you near me.
I saw a film. The sun was gleaming green on the crests of the corrugated sea. I thought of how long it has been since I have seen the ocean. Will you go with me?
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The Page Collective
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Indispensable
The following is a chapter of a short book I am writing about my grandfather, Orrick Johns, and the first half of the 20th Century. He was born in 1887 in St. Louis, Missouri. He was equivalent to Millennial in his time. He was the Lost Generation—the first generation to come of age in the 20th Century. What they remembered of the 19th Century is what we remember, just as everyone born after 1980 will get to define the memory of the 20th Century. Orrick Johns was a successful writer, poet and playwright who who rubbed elbows with most of the literary names and legendary figures of his time, and he was forgotten. The following is part of an investigation into the process of history that left behind my grandfather.
By The Page Collective5 years ago in Humans
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