Magic Place

I’m sorry, dear, but I had to leave. I packed a tiny pink suitcase and went back to my magic place. I went to live under the branches, inside that hollowed out bush in the front yard of the house I grew up in. I don’t know who owns the house now. No, they don’t approve of me living there. I pretend not to speak their language. I pretend I am a child. They keep having me removed. I go back. That’s the land where I cut my teeth. You can’t own the dirt. It still smells of my childhood.