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Sorrow and Child

After a Long Absence

14 March
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Perhaps flags are like hands, I think. There's a giant of a building across from me, wrapped in a grey haze. Three flags atop it wave a gentle hello while snow floats by on a frigid though friendly breeze. Inside the building, there is only one light on. Its yellow is the only warmth. Another giant stands across the street, possibly flagged, but too tall for me to tell. It, too, has only one warm tiny yellow light peeking through a myriad of blank grey windows.

Perhaps the flags are hands, I think, and then I think of you. I realize that I have thought of you all day but didn't notice, the same way I don't notice my heart beating anymore, or lose track of my shoes, sometimes, while they're on my feet. You must be so comfortable in my head, so welcome that you might as well live there.

Perhaps the flags are hands waving, I think. One giant waves to the other, hoping to attract attention from a kindred spirit. It's hopeless, though, for neither of them can move beneath the snow. They are trapped at opposite ends of a road in the middle of winter, with a cold, wide park and hibernating trees between them.

I'll wait for snow to melt and thaw the giants. I'll wait until the words, "I love you," are strong enough to move the giant legs a single step. One step is all it takes for one so large to move a thousand miles. Then you and I who've staked our claims, will place our flags. I'll kiss your mouth, which is mine. You'll take my hands, which are yours. We'll melt in each other's arms, and solidify as one being, needing flags no longer.

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