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I am amidst the gloom of a cabin. The rooms are rich with dust and dim. Out the window is a desolate winter forest. I open the door. Outside there is snow, pale as milk. It falls in piles and will not abate. The trees stick out black and moan. I stand in the doorway, tottering back and forth on my heels, remembering.
I recall my daughter. Her name was Stella. When she was little I drew bees on her arms. I crossed them out with small X’s. She hated bees. I remember cutting her hair, the little bits falling away.
She grew up and I grew old. I died. But when I died I was not taken to some afterlife. I awoke inside her body. I could peer out her eyes. I suppose it is every parents dream. To see the world through their child’s eyes. Watch them go about their life. Be proud.
But I soon grew weary of that place. All the thoughts bouncing to and fro. Hitting me. So I left. I reached forward and clawed myself out into a new life. Now Stella is on the floor behind me, a crumpled skin suit.
So. I stand in the doorway, tottering back and forth on my heels. Out the door the skeletal trees in the waning light. A group of birds have perched themselves in one of the barren trees, making it look fully leafed again.
I stand in the doorway, remembering. The only thing I can’t remember is if I am a monster or a newborn. I totter. The world waits.
Ian MacLean lives in Vancouver, B.C.
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