As If
I drive past lonely homes with peeling paint and dogs that howl under an inky canvas of glittering stars. Past the dinky motel advertising a free pancake breakfast, past the abandoned playground with rusting swings, past the bungalow I once called home. This is where I pause, headlights painting the splintered wooden porch in an ethereal, misty glow. My mother’s rocking chair is gone, as if she never lived there at all, as if she never lived. Eventually I drive on, until I reach the edge of the town I was so desperate to leave, the town whose dim street lights linger in my chest.
Erin Jamieson
Erin Jamieson (she/her) holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University. Her writing has been published in over eighty literary magazines, including a Pushcart Prize nomination. She is the author of a poetry collection and four poetry chapbooks. Her latest poetry chapbook, Fairytales,was published by Bottle Cap Press. Her debut novel, Sky of Ashes, Land of Dreams, came out November 1st, 2023.
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Comments
Yes, again love Victor's comments. It's that loneliness and regret that comes only with aging.
In nostalgic and melancholic tones, you’ve composed a type of requiem that many people can relate to as they pull memories from their past of what was, and what will never be again. Beautifully bequeathed, thanks Erin.