Your archive is being squeezed my dead father
Your research, your photos, your documents, donations . . . And the Map of 1918.
The map where 5 lots were owned by our people. Lost one by one. Death, fights, money hungry.
The money chiefs — they grow bolder. They want that archive off line, forgotten.
They want that lone original map that you were gifted, that you gifted to the library.
Your favorite daughter will not know how to battle the money chiefs.
She will easily be bought.
If I had magic I would collect us all together again and remove the hurt.
Remove the fear and cruelty.
I would image that place on earth back into a long ago never before.
There would be wood stoves burning on early summer mornings.
The beach roses would still be by the alley.
It would be quiet but for a full bellied sea gull screech — now and again.
The Map would be framed on the wall.
Time would stand still and serene.
David’s pancakes.
Thin sliced salmon, red onion, thick cream cheese. Still warm onion bagels.
