Note to self: World seen through eyes of child. Kitchen window onto forest ground.

I cannot escape the sound of scraping metal

Low whistles blowing through open windows

Alone in the hills of Nova Scotia

It is early Spring, call it late Winter?

Perhaps somewhere in between.

The snow has melted.

The trees are bare.

Just me and Gloria in this giant old house.

And yet, always there.

Always the sound of scraping metal, and

Low whistles blowing through open windows.

Back in the height of summer,

I am sprawled out on a mattress in Montreal.

The sun is slowly setting

And I am in an almost empty room

Stealing the seconds

From every remaining ray.

Impending darkness,

Solitude.

The sound of scraping metal

To take me away

From so many empty days.

I miss your stories. Speaking of ways in which you proved your worth to men of nobility; Joys found in free treats; Bursting hearts over wrinkles; Through your own wit and charm, all that which you've accomplished. 

I miss your mannerisms. I miss the way your eyes would fall far when something [shouldn't have] hurt you. I miss mornings. I miss biking through city streets, feeling your presence somewhere in the shadow of the same mountain.

But 

I don't want to miss feeling inadequate, falling short of your dreams of me. 

I don't want to miss disappointing you, having not kept up 

With where you'd have me be.

Today I subscribe to my own dreams of silly old me.

And hope that an old he only sees what's beyond my fancy dresses,

Knowing that I'm perfect in my becoming something other

Than any other's dream.