i am in bed & it is late, i have a fever, i am pressing a cold washcloth to the back of my neck and i am thinking about what it must be like to be the sun, or to have the sun stuck somewhere in your body, like your lower back or your wrists or behind your eyes.
i remember my grandmother taking me to see "the secret garden"one distinctly lazy day in a childhood summer leftover in the attic of my brains.  i remember the daylight & i remember the snacks she made at home because the theater candy was far too expensive, far too expensive & besides, i liked how the brownies and popcorn would make her house smell and how she'd pack them up in ziploc bags & put them in her purse and how we'd go, the pair of us, we'd walk there, the air congratulating us on our tasty accomplishments and the darkness of the theater would remind us how light the sun can get when we'd walk outside afterword and our eyes got squinty. i remember walking home like some crystal in somebodys hand or pocket, that's exactly how i felt, like something cherished, like everything was something to be cherished. this particular day i  specifically recall passing a brownstone with an arched vine of twigs, intertwining like lovers legs and wrapping around the dark black gate of it's entrance,  right in the middle of brooklyn, in the middle of new york, in the middle of the world, on this rock of a planet, hanging in space like some second graders dangling loose tooth. it was one of those things you keep your eye on, even after you passed it. one of those. i thought it was rather appropriate, then, at ten years old, i thought, what a garden of secrets we find ourselves being, what a tiny, crushed up world of big secrets just for me.

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