by practicalspactical

Booth — the place I was born; when I was a small child, a young child, I knew that it was where I was from– and I returned there, only a few years later, to witness the dropping into the world of my sister Sarah. Booth. Oh, world of well-named things, where have you gone? Where these places were written in Capital Letters, Pregnant with Meaning, like my large round mother was — the wondrous playworld of children — the only hope — oh, to have a child, and to play with it in the afternoon, to take it for walks and to playgrounds — to teach it things — to spin it stories — to watch as it learns — oh, Booth, place of love, which loved me, and helped my momma bring me to this gardenworld — I was light as a feather then, small, small enough to sneak into the world — now I am large and ungainly, still a child in this young but aging man-body — Alexander ruled the world by now, a thought that made Caesar, now dead and dusty, weep — too heavy now, to go the way I came in, when I leave this world, I’ll have to leave my body down here, too heavy to float, not a little pippin anymore, no, no.