Stranger to a Memory
- Apr 10
- 1 min read
Sylvie Harrington '26
I skipped
across the terse grass, tossed
myself over the cold stone.
That quiet was
an exhale, that wiry
midnight gate curling open,
its familiar squeak a greeting,
the trimmed hill ahead
a comfortable challenge.
I’d twirl myself in hurricanes
around those firm white pillars,
those sturdy tree trunks.
The quiet is a stern appraisal.
The house stares, hangs, like
a plain linen dress collecting
dust in a wooden closet.
The slivers between the mighty oaks
are braided snippets of light
I want to shove into my pockets.
If I could sing
like I did then,
I’d follow the echoes,
asking the gaunt afternoon air,
Is that you? Or just some brilliant disguise?
What mask are you wearing?
The rectangular windows ignore me,
the chimney puffs its fumes into the air,
like it’s joking with the clouds,
and I am eavesdropping.
The house regards me with cold disinterest.
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