Not all prisons have walls

They positioned her chair beneath the magnolia tree.

A blanket tucked neatly across her lap.

Her face followed the movement of the sun
like a sundial.

Voices drifted inward,
joining the others.

Fragments.

Memories.

Conversations.

The present arriving
no differently than the past.

She sat there from dawn until dusk.

Motionless.

Listening.

A voice.

A thought.

A memory.

Nothing held its shape for long.

One afternoon she thought she heard,

“I love you.”

The voice was familiar.

She reached for it.

But before she could place it,

they dissolved back into sounds and syllables.