they pulled my hair at charm school.

they stole my guestbook during rolecall.

"Break their hearts, my pride & hope, " + March 21. 2002 = 3:06 p.m.

+

As of late, caught missing Will B.'s Fruit St. house. Four years ago and he offered me a second floor bedroom until I found a place of my own.

Miss its steep staircase, yellow bathroom with claw footed tub. Twisted sculptures in the backyard overgrown with weeds. Leather scrap book with his childhood photos from a Kenya trip. Third floor attic studio with its porcelain sink & zinc counter. Old paintings and framed photographs leaning against one wall. His paintings-in-progress taped to another wall with heavy masking tape. Desk near window. Uneven floorboards. Exposed roof beams. Stained glass in the downstairs living room. Glass doors and two fireplaces. Tall bookcases done in cherry. Old books smell like stone. New Year's Eve and we left heavy green bottles of champagne on back porch. Next morning and the porch glittered with shards of green glass. A milky champagne foam frozen in its slow crawl.

He, for some odd reason, has taken a Larger-Than-Life role in my history. Have given him the role of Miss Havisham. Now, he wanders back & forth, a brooding & demanding presence in all of my literary endeavors. Strange, that. In real life I could not wait to get away from his ever present stare and endless questions. Now, I keep writing him into story lines, as if to keep him Near.

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ghosts!