When I died I split infinite times into an infinite number of spirits. As life left it cut my soul into the necessary number of pieces for its purpose. I am still discovering their destinations. The pieces.
Each seems to have gone somewhere significant. Places I knew and places that were important in my former life and places that had some kind of connection I am still coming to understand. I don’t know if the seeing will end. I have not had any of this explained to me. I try to piece meaning together as each scene is presented.
I watch these scenes unfold at each site and hope that they will answer some question. So far nothing has illuminated anything anymore than when I was alive. Everything is as arbitrary and poignant and unresolved as it ever was.
A familiar woman I can’t place fanning herself with a play program.
The elderly faces of my former lovers as they shop and sleep and wait for buses.
The shape of the water of a certain fountain.
A trolley my mother once used to push me around a supermarket.
The greyness of the sky between trees where someone kissed me.
The bench where I cried after a fight.
The hollow of a rotting stump where one of my cats would put bird bodies.
The bar where I could write late at night without feeling too conspicuous or being bothered.
The way I would walk to work in the city.
The backyard where an ex-boyfriend found the reason one of his plants was struggling to bloom was because its roots had become entangled with a piece of Styrofoam buried in the soil, and where he ever-so-gently extricated the Styrofoam from the delicate tendrils of the plant’s root system with tweezers and re-planted the plant in the soil, and where soon after, the plant yielded one white and perfect bell-shaped flower.
Another place was inside the dark body of a guitar. Someone once wrote a song for me with this guitar. I couldn’t tell where it was being stored. It was not being played and I am sure I will never hear that song again.
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