reading Proust
for
the umpteenth time,
i
came across
the word buttercup
and,
like that
famous madeleine cookie
in
the beginning
of that long and wonderfully
difficult book,
i thought
back to a time
when me and my sister
used to walk
into the woods behind our house
and
pick these
little yellow flowers,
and
she taught me
how to hold them
under
her chin
where i could
see the reflection
of
the flower,
bright and yellow
and gone
the second i took
my eight-year-old hand away.

Deja un comentario