It's just on the other end of my trailer, but I call it my office. It's where the creative juices flow and memories flood back to me. The walls are covered with the past, all of which I need not think hard to summon. Each picture tells a story like someone's young life as a kid, joining the army and never coming home again. It tells a love story in the form of an obituary and a life that never ran its course. There was a picture that spoke to me when I purchased it from a garage sale, not knowing who it was, and even an old gold-painted frame empty of any memories it once framed and hung on a wall halfway up the stairway of a mansion in the South. As I look upward, a row of burlesque photographs banned when taken and now revered as an art form all but forgotten. It's just another room at the end of my trailer, but it's my room filled with stories yet to be written, tears yet to fall, and smiles to myself as I am the only reader.
MO
No comments:
Post a Comment