(for Jan) The mind is a prison, portcullis- hidden, surrounded by a moat. Rituals inside designed for correction. The dangerous belong in the dungeon. The year my father died, I went to the mind. The year after, I went about my business. My marriage existed. We painted the house, raised the child inside it, changed the path of the rose trellis to avoid the lemon tree. Survived. For the rest of my life, I travelled across the earth. I brought to the mountain what belonged to the mountain. I threw in the sea nearly everything else. In a train station, my father waits on the bench the porter shined in the wee hours of whatever day this is. It can't be You are not meant to come with me
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