Tara Caribou – visiting strangers
A woman holds my hand. I’ve never seen her before but she’s showing me a photograph of a handsome young couple standing in front of a blue Cadillac and now she’s started crying. She keeps asking if I remember him, in the faded photograph, but I’ve never seen him or her before. She insists she’s my daughter Deborah but my daughter is just a little girl. She lost her front teeth recently and I put them in an envelope to remember her fleeting childhood. This woman must be my age, maybe older. She tells me things about my life that sometimes feel vaguely familiar yet surely I know my own life. She hugs me and it feels awkward to hug a stranger but she seems to need it. I wave to her when she says she’ll be back next Tuesday like always. But I never do see her again, poor…
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