Spiral notebook

A Post Modern experiment in a Prose Poetry style, presented in bits and peices.

It's late. She knew she should be sleeping, but that nagging anger kept interrupting her mindful meditations. It had not been a good day, well who knows. Maybe one day I'll bless this one, but I digress.
If she'd never danced in the rain, she'd certainly had the opportunity to, being from Seattle and all.
And then the time her mom came to visit on the corner of Laurel and Dakota in California.
Grandma got the girls dressed. Their fac3s were washed, their bangs were pulled back they had on white tights and matching dresses.
They walked to the Bakery on a gray and wet day.
Inside the Bakery, my Mom and I, and the older of the two girls decided what we wanted. The girl left her condensed breath and finger prints on the glass..she was only three feet tall. Two and a half, well maybe.
Grandma asked, "where is Angel? Andrea answered, all adult like and matter of factly, "she's outside, jumping in a puddle. Ha
And when she was young, tromping through the streets àll feral and seemingly dipped in juvenile delinquency, her wayfarer jeans, ,( what we called swabbed because it's what the sailors wore. The sailors. God she loved the sailors. They would be wet to her knees and we called our shoes, soggy because they always were. We didn't wear rain boots in Seattle, for God's sake, but for the life of me, I can't remember if I danced in the rain.