A Quarterly Journal of Contemporary English Language Haibun
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September 2006, vol 2 no 3

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Lenard D. Moore

Cleaning the Attic

Listen, I must tell you this. I can't wait. After today, it will be too late. You realize what memory shaped on this day. Twenty-five years ago, I left for Basic Training. We reunited later that evening. You took me to your mother's house. I remember our kisses, the fire shooting through us. I want to celebrate. Despite the years, I still savor that hot August day. The recruiter drove me to Raleigh, where I found you again. I couldn't forget, let such major events dwindle. I don't need a photograph of that time. I can still see you: chocolate complexion, short black curls, eyes brown and gleaming. Cat eyes testifying love. As if slipping into a dream. We touched like water, whispered like wind. We've got to tell our grown daughter.

unfolding her letter
from the dusty trunk—
twilight breeze