She was afraid of things that hide:
The black cat at the back, the rat
that escaped the trap, the tiny
tricky ants nibbling at her snacks.
She would tremble at the sight of
the slightly opened door to
the study that invites peculiar
shadows as seen only by
the corners of her eyes.
The vacant chair by the window
is worn because of the weight
of black entities and years of
neglect. She would feel peering
eyes studying her from a quiet
distance whenever she’d enter
to pull the books out of disrespect,
read the pages, and recognize
which chapters were left bereft
by many hands which browsed
what would slowly accumulate dust.
But a child would grow fond of
unearthing bright things in the dark:
Father’s gold watch, his once loyal
pen, and a stack of old records
waiting to be played again.
Not to mention discovering
a parallel universe where
traveling is merely flipping
through pages of C.S. Lewis
just before bedtime, closing
her bright eyes, and flying
boundlessly in her sleep.
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