Elana Bell
Each time something went missing—
the photo album of my first
year, postcard from a forgotten
friend—my mother blamed
the shed, rusting in the center
of our yard. I imagined
some insatiable monster
stored there, feeding
on all our dark clutter.
Now, in the second season
of her Parkinson’s, my mother
paces the length of the grass
each morning, pausing
by the shed to rattle
its neglected doors,
as if, by forcing them
open, she might find
all that she’s lost.
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