I found you yesterday, in a Netflix documentary. How did I miss you all of those years. Where was I?
There are happenings that can go undetected. It seems impossible, when they are so visible.
When I heard your story, I wanted to find my friend, Jane. The one who took me to her literature classes. The one who changed my life. The one who told me to write what was in my head.
I wanted to expose you to her. You, who are not there and she that has no appearance.
She’s not the Jane, she once was. She is an unseen resident of a historical house, circa 1763. The clapboard house has no paint. It’s bare wood is ornate; beautiful in an ugly way. The grounds are a disheveled mess, on a distinct hill. It rises above. It’s view is a small, neat cemetery.
Vodka has replaced the pen and paper. Jane is a ghost. I saw her in Publix, six months ago. A smile on her face, like always. I’ve heard she is a monster, although I cannot attest to that. The monster story is someone else’s. It came from a mouth of the past; dead, but not buried.
A small child sleeps in a seedy motel. She cannot cry.
A big sister, tells a story that is lies. She grows bigger by the day, trying to hide her secrets. She sounds off through a megaphone of deceit.
JT – you are so Humpty Dumpty. You cried wolf, after he had devoured you.
And that is why they loved you, and that is why they hated you.
JT is dead ~ Long Live JT