I waited three months to see the wheat. When I finally entered the small heptagon that they had built for Agnes’s paintings, it was the wrong shape. The paintings were too close together, so the grays, blues, and whites began to blend
like childhood, but the other childhood, the one written over by memory. In Agnes’s room, I tried to remember my childhood wonder but couldn’t. Just gallows, labyrinths, blood. But now, many days later, I look at my photo of
like childhood, but the other childhood, the one written over by memory. In Agnes’s room, I tried to remember my childhood wonder but couldn’t. Just gallows, labyrinths, blood. But now, many days later, I look at my photo of
Agnes’s wheat and think of my mistake — that wonder is in objects, not memories. This entire time, I have been slaughtered by memories. In front of me, all along, the dandelion, the Petoskey, the ring.
