She looked up at the ceiling of her bedroom
and remembered when she had drawn circles in pen all over it.
She wasn’t sure if she could actually remember,
or if was one of those stories that had been told so often,
that your imagination created a fake memory,
based on the fact that the stories contained.
Her father had asked if she wanted them to be repainted,
but for some reason she liked those strange circles.
They made her remember that not everything had a beginning and an end,
some things just went around and around just like the circles on her ceiling.
They gave her hope that just because one thing came to an end,
not everything had to.