Letting ghosts do their work.
A visual account of what is done, here. By way of divine, by way of human error. Of ship in water both too shallow and too rough to navigate solely in the hands of learned ability. The family story will never be mine alone to tell. My bones, my skin, my memories, yes. They belong to me, but their history was told long ago. My recount is both skewed and polluted.
The desire for done-ness is great. A sort of gravitational pull. A constant knocking at the back door.
“Hello! Home?...You here?” And then a gradual, slow-stepped back up.
I can see it in pixelated forward motion and in quick reverse, rewind. Pulling it’s knocking hand back.
Human handmade chains keep this scene at bay. Warm safe-holds.
I can allow that back door to be open, so to feel the breeze.
And keep my eyes on the hallway, where the light rests at the foot of the door.
Eyes at the windows.
At the passerby’s.
Ears in tune with the slow, ever so slow hummmm, the forever hummmm.
There is no room for “done” here.