a dream vignette prose poem

A turning comes within my chest within within my chest the heart within the heart within: closed eyes comes a vision: a child, a little girl wearing a straight white neat dress she looks about seven, her features ring familiar; but whose child is this?

I know her face, whose face is this? She wipes her tears with her hands and looks down as she stands alone before a very bright sunny wide tall opening, like a great open door—the light is almost pure white.

Like she was not crying, like she is not leaving, like she is waiting and not waiting, wearing a white matching leather pocketbook. My tears fall onto my pillow instantly and fill my closed eyes like that bright white light and the innocent girl crying, a friend I knew, as if as a child there, and tears from my vision, and the tears cease…[…]

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