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Afternoons in the bookstore with my Mother

What I would give.
To spend an afternoon with you at the bookstore.
Lazily languishing languidly, exploring new worlds with the birth of each fresh page.
Iced tea melting, leaving rings of melted water.
An echo of what once was.

Id give all that Ive created since.
To regress back to 14, innocent and scared, your beauty my eternal, vigilant light.
My fingers clutching a book powerfully, its spine caressing my thigh.
As I excitedly ruffle its contents, absorbing the words.
I find my voice whilst basking in your love.

Rain drops attack the stained glass window hurriedly.
Producing the same sound as nimble fingers tapping the skin of a bongo drum.
"Here, darling", you sing angelic, as the conforting warmth of hot chocolate heats my ruddy cheeks.
My stack of books fills my peripherals, but I can still make out your smile.

Im overseas, at the bookstore.
A world away from the world I love, my fingers gripping yours tightly.
Because Im still that child. He's just learned to hide.
A mother runs after her son, a toddler, as he charges towards the children's books.
They laugh ebulliently, and I smile.
Youre never far from me in spirit.

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