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Cassandra de Alba
When he grabs my hand after we hug goodbye
it feels familiar as the driveway of my summer camp
when I came back to visit after years away.
Or standing on the lawn of my childhood house
which I have not done since the day we moved
but have imagined, repeatedly—the new people
answering the door, me unable to ask
any real questions—not sure I want to know
if they painted the walls, if he found
someone else. Mostly, I want to keep the memory
whole and safe as an egg. I want to stand on the lawn,
admire the flowers, not be asked inside.
Visiting
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