I’ve got curtains all over my life, thick, heavy, embroidered ones, made of brocade and weighted to make moving them hard. They are for the trauma, the incidents of brokeness that i don’t want to, or can’t visit. Vaporous, gossamer ones that shift all the time, allowing me to glimpse behind them and either glory, or wallow in the times behind them. Sometimes wallow in the glory.

I know there’s a point to this, I just can’t grasp it at the moment.