Philadelphia Cream Cheese

A rainbow is setting in the Central Park reservoir. The boy with the purple knee-socks is kissing the girl with the sapphire eyes. Victorian acacia branches curve into cupids as my fingers trace the railing of the footbridge where we walked. It smells like ivory keys and maple syrup.

My brother is turning ten on September 6th. I remember ten. I remember this park at ten, when I stayed with you that first last summer. I remember the sound the wheelchair made as it parted gravel. I remember reaching up to grab the walker, my small hand on your wrinkled one. I remember the leaves we gathered and the poems you recited and the way you loved when I hummed the theme from Swan Lake.

And now it will be his turn to visit these streets. And I will show him. I will show him the window where I used to spin through white lace curtains. And he will laugh when he hears the stories. And I will tell him that he has your laugh.

And we'll remember.

Rakes Progress

a weekend past budding,
the petal curls downward
with the weight of
Pink and something silver.
aging wrinkles on a
“Maybe I’ll fall off tomorrow”
she mutters,
in winded wisps of
pensive on green

For lack of words

19. She's been wrapping her tongue around that number, waiting for it to melt or unfurl. Nineteen. It tastes something like kalua out of a rusted flask. It vibrates through her fingertips like a Jacobin reaction to generations of matriarchs. 19. She toasts away its education, with gratitude, and turns a new leaf in her book of recollection. Let autumn iron out the old sheets.

She shook hands with a stranger today on the corner of 114th and Broadway. He commented on her thoughts as she read his grin and let him fumble numbers into a phone. She watched him walk away with his briefcase and wondered if he'd ever walk barefoot through morningside. She decided to touch toe to pavement on her way to work. She doesn't think she'll pick up if he calls.

She's been having trouble speaking. There's something about the way that sound sits on air that makes insecurity tangible. She'll do what she always does. She'll leave love in pen scratches.

And stop counting time .

Terminal

The bus rolls in at minutes past the hour. I've traced the spotted gray of these seats before just as the wheels trace the bridges I haven't built. I watch the outline of my reflection flit between the raindrops on the window and wonder if I'd take a chance on myself the way I wish the others did.

I think I would. I don't know if that counts.

The man sitting next to me is offering me a stick of gum. He leans over the aisle and hands me a dashing smile. I  return the favor but refuse the gesture and turn back into myself. The bus accelerates.

The things that aren't are flirting with the things that are and I hold my breath until the faces spin away. I could use a smoke.

The doors swing open and I tumble back into pseudo-certainty. Consequences are always relevant, but they won't stop me from being. I'm scared of time and not having enough of it.

Happiness isn't about everything in life being perfect. Happiness is about stringing together the little things and making them count more than the bad bits. Happiness is about the way a friend leans on your shoulder, or the way a long awaited phonecall feels in your hand, or about the way you made someone laugh when that was exactly what they needed. Happiness is the way I can be if I want to be. And I want to be.

I'm not spending time in front of mirrors anymore. It's time to live as more than a reflection of myself.