I walked on the street between the two rows of those old homes with their locked doors, their blue peeling walls, and their sleepy eyes concealed by dark brocade drapes.
I wanted you.
First, the song seemed to come out of nowhere. Then on the opposite sidewalk I could see the children dressed in white, blindfolded, their feet floating above the cracked asphalt like some withered autumn leaves carried by a psychedelic wind.
The children sang. I could make out the refrain: “We can’t see, we can’t hear.”
Was I dreaming?
During autumn I dream. That is because I was born in autumn on a day that has no saint assigned. Therefore, every year, on my birthday, I make up things.
You waited for me at the end of the road. I felt your hungry fingers unbuttoning my raincoat.
The children approached. Their little voices pinched my brain like needles. Their thin bodies reflected in your blue eyes.
Can you see the children?
The children dressed in white. They are in your eyes. Why can’t you see them?
Your fingers continued to unbutton my raincoat.
Lord, I must have been born on the day of children who cannot be seen and cannot be heard.
“With lush language and lavish imagery, Gabriela M. evokes a fantastic world ripe with emotion.” Christina Schwarz, New York Times Bestselling Author.
Gabriela Marie Milton’s book “transports us on a journey of love as much as it delivers us a thematically diverse set of emotions. This is a superb collection.” Bobbie Peyton, San Francisco Book Review.