Roots

Everyone's fading from my life, but I'm thankful for it. Certain parts of my brain feel like rain has washed over them, running the dirt of ex-girlfriends and bad bosses down into the drain. In fact, a fountain of youth has replaced ghosts of memories deciding to haunt my neighbor down the street. Now, she's not sure why she believes she should apologize to certain people, frown when someone tells her she's lovely, or why the bridge and its river at the bottom look inviting like an unknown chocolate in a wooden box. I can see those phantoms waving at me, asking if they can visit to burn holes in my cortex with lit agonies, but I'm now at a new place and it's too hard to get back to the old neighborhoods. It's awkward when I run into them, hovering around my now tormented acquaintance. I squirm when I hear her yell, "Why me? Why me, God?" There is no reason, just as the flowers in my yard grow brighter and lovelier each day, though I've never visited their ocean of seeds with boats full of water, or drowned under the earth long enough to feed their roots.