Storage Woman



I am storage. I live in storage. I left my real life somewhere and cannot get it back. The boxes, big, medium and  small, are before me. They stare at me and I stare at them. Some boxes are open, some are closed, ready to go. I have been looking at the boxes—at myself—for months, perhaps years. My eyes close. I shake my head. My eyes open slowly. I look at the boxes, then I look the other way. Makes no difference. The boxes don’t go away.




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One Response to “Storage Woman”

  1. Marta Merajver Kurlat Says:

    All the posts in this blog share a magnificent quality of profound meaning and poignancy conveyed in an admirable economy of language.
    They are a lesson in true literature for those who squander words and leave you with empty hands and heart.

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