local to local
The imprint of Elizabeth's body is still in the dry stubble of my lawn left from her afternoon of nursing a headache; as is a stretch in the hammock ropes that held Elizabeth's Jim as he delinquently read his book. There are drips and splashes still on the kitchen floor left from Lynnette's preparations of my birthday dinner, some drips replaced by Rafie's lick marks... evidence of Lynnette's way with dogs. Two small rocks are still in the yard, left from holding down John's music as he played the accordion for me. Small traces only detectable by me; songs sung in my own language.