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Alone Together
As she sat there, mindlessly
tapping away at the keys, I looked
on over her shoulders, at the gaping
sunset that was about to transpire.
Her legs sat folded on the piano chair,
with each finger tapping a broken tune,
on a broken piano, on a hot summer’s day.
Mama had left for a while, leaving us two
alone in the house. I had asked you if you
wanted to walk to the nearby beach to skip
some stones. You told me in that sassy
voice of yours: “Mama’s gonna get real mad
at you if you go,” to which I replied, even
sassier, “Who asked you to come? Stay here.
I’ll go.” Forty years later, the beach looks
different. You look different. Where was Mama
now; it’s just us two. Alone. Finally, you’ve
made it to the beach.
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This piece is a vicarious representation of what it would be like for my sister and me years later.