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Artspark #63

Write from the point of view of an amnesiac

Do I know you?

You have a familiar look, but I can't quite place you. 

Were we lovers?  There is warmth when I look at you, but not passion.  The body would remember, wouldn't it? 

Maybe we were casual acquaintances, friendly but not friends.  But the tenderness and anxiety in your face suggest otherwise.  Friends, at least, then.

I know you're not my mother, though you have something of her around the eyes, the mouth.  But I remember her well enough, seeing me off to university, smiling through loving tears.   It's about the last thing I do remember, before everything melts into the cloud.  I know there are months, maybe years, hidden in the cloud - I can feel the pressure of them, like words caught on the tip of my tongue.

You reach your hand out to me, tentative, with a cautious half-smile.  I reach out to you, with a hand strangely changed, aged.

"Do you remember me yet?"  you say.  "Do you remember me, Mum?"

Crossposted to artspark

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