Exit. Exit. Oh, Exit.

Exit 3 Ways

I will
I think
never
stop be-
-ing sur-
-prised at
the ease
with which
people
can ex-
-it con-
-versa-
-tions with
me.

I had to run so quickly to save my life, like a conflagration, not of flames, but her fury, and I grabbed what was in my path, trying to be sure and certain to take what I would need, what had been mine before her, and in the run and the rush and the firing of her accusations, I left behind my aunt’s fur coat. I lost my aunt’s fur coat. Which I had used as a costume. And prop. In which I would wrap myself when I was sad. And cold. Because it meant so much to my aunt. I could not, could not ever, go back to get it. I had to save my life and in doing so lost parts of it.

I will, I think, never stop being
surprised at the ease with which people
can exit conversations with me.

And so many pictures. But what would I do with them? And then, there, the new place, which I am about to lose, instead of fire, flood. Soon. After. I’d arrived. Water. I woke one night and swung my legs over the side of the bed onto the ground where a river had come. A river in which my pictures and scrapbooks, the ones I’d managed to grab when I’d run, a river in which those were drowned and turned to clumps of glue and ink and paper and made brick of blanks. I have just memories. No proof.

I will, I think, never stop being surprised at the ease with which people can exit conversations with me.

No fur. No proof. So many lost parts of me.

And soon, I need to run again. I have left so much behind.

I wish I had Sissie’s fur coat to wrap myself in, protect me from all that is gone. Which makes sense to no one but me.

Exit. Exit. Oh, exit.

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