Up North

I  don’t know anyone from up north who doesn’t have part of their past stashed away in a barn somewhere.
There are five sofas from different generations in various levels of decay and stuffed between, someones old bike.
I can never leave that place,
my face is in photo albums I’ll never see again and they will be placed in a barn
45 years from now someone will trace their fingertips over the picture of a small me smiling,
smiling so widely.
Nothing dies up north, nothing leaves, not really, it just gets buried under ice, under snow and at the back of a barn.
It’s where we keep the old fridges, the albums and the skeletons.


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