Lime green, jardin de jungle.
A pair of legging trousers, a tunic
or is it a dress?
Little girl, on a beam, without a beam, on a vitesse à tres longue distance, trees at the moment zipping by in my lens like no tomorrow. She’s a ballerina, the type another little girl could have if the brain damage had never happened, in my acquaintance, of a long time ago.
I barely recognize her. Subtle differences: the year, the sandals, the mother, the bag, the hair, the dimples, the voice.
It’s no beam. It’s swinging into another path, another way, another child racing through the corridors, screaming the good joyful battle cry of innocence “ouiiiiiiiiiiiii” “laissons les” mamina’s voice wafts through. “Non” my mother’s stern glare replies.
The other child, the one I once knew, ran through everything. Bright lime green legging shorts, a unisex Decathlon t-shirt, blue, white, red, what does it matter, I just saw one “L” sized in a vintage shop, sunglasses, plastic, white, brown hair in the French bourgeoisie style à la ’90s, à la classique, still à la mode today, sneakers, practical for running. But disabled. So no ballerina.
This week is back to poetry. It takes a while to write something not poetry these days and last week, the words needed to be put out there. Enjoy.