Wallpaper — a meditation

In my grandmother’s house,
old and dark and dusty,
I would walk
the long corridor
with my eyes closed,
running my fingers
softly along the rough
wallpaper, like a needle
on a vinyl record,
and i swear to you
I could hear the sound
of my mother,
my aunts and uncles,
laughing as they played,
each in their own childhood,
before the dust came in
and the darkness settled
on the furniture.

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