Don’t Go ThereBernadette Geyer
Don’t go there, she said, and I didn’t. Lordy, though I wanted to. I’d have followed her down that rickety staircase to the cellar of her memory. To the very walled up ghosts whose voices she can still just barely hear. Nights, we didn’t go anywhere. Lit up, hung out, just to get so far away from there that we could have been anywhere. Or nowhere. It was always there. But, more often than not, it was everywhere.
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