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We want things we cannot have. We seek to reclaim a certain moment, sound, sensation. I want to hear my mother’s voice. I want to see my children as children. Hands small, feet swift. Everything changes. Boy grown, father dead, daughter taller than me, weeping from a bad dream. Please stay forever, I say to the things I know. Don’t go. Don’t grow. – Patti Smith, M Train

I have no children to speak of, no husband to mourn, yet my soul responds as if it knew. How can I connect with such a passage, written by a woman 40 years my senior?

The melancholy of my soul from forever ago.

 

Sky

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