Remembering Verena

Jeanne Morel

It is the year my sister is born.
A figure teeters on stilts far
above the town. There is no
hospital nor parking lot from
which one could look up and
point towards a figure waving
from a patient window. No
window, no mother waving,
no cars below. A string of
lights spotlight the
cobblestones and the façade
of normalcy. Buildings
intended to house a country.
Movement is precarious. If
the residents suffer from
insomnia, no one knows. It is
the year my sister is born and
already things are wobbly.

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