philosophies of violet westonI can still hear her voice. And yet, I can't picture her face. Jigsaw puzzle pieces of my memories tell me that she had blue eyes and brown hair. When I see the photos of her, I ask myself, "Is that really her?" I have diaries and newspaper clippings collected in a shoebox and kept with the dust, the colours aging into sepia toned clutter. And yet, they seem unreal, like fantasies, unknown and in the past, rewinding inside my head like a broken record, all echoing the name Audrey – my mother until I turned twelve. The memories are all in my cupboard; torn pages, patched up teddy bears and miniature china dolls. Whphilosophies of violet weston
deer
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Spongebob: Patrick, you forgot how to eat again!! Come on, I'll get the funnel!!
*SecretlyIAmAPenguin <--mah gallery
Jewish and proud!!
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