Reminded of Borders and Fences

I close my eyes and see a room. There's a crowd of jeans and sweatshirts walking in synchronized crisscrosses across the vast rotunda. A little girl with blond braids sits on her father's shoulders as an escalator raises them above my head. I hold my breath as I watch them and the room starts spinning. There's water everywhere. I can smell the salt and the blurring of faces. There's a tall man in a navy suit with deep black eyes and I stagger through my tangible incompetence with hands sweating. He reminds me that I'm in the way.

And the image fades, and the tall man leaves as he always does, and the water drains and what's left is salt and crumbling.

It's because she looked back.

There are moments when you sit before a test question, the solution in plain sight, and can't bring yourself to let your sharpened pencil touch the paper. You're in second grade again and they're asking about family trees. You raise your hand and ask to step outside.

There's a cherry blossom in the yard and the sun is shining. The french teacher left his window open and you can hear the upperclassmen declining in monotone. There's a cute boy with mischievous dimples staring out the window. He winks at you and aims his paper airplane at the french teacher's graying goatee. You laugh. The cloud passes.

She'll give it the requisite day or so and then return to smiling.