Suburb

It'll be two thousand dollars to bring it back to looking brand new, she says over the phone, her auto body specialist waiting in the wings. You try to tell her you don't need the old station wagon to look brand new, try to tell her the scars and scuffs and patina are merely signs of a life well lived, and all you need is to repair the wounds that will make it fall apart before its time. She will not have it, says they take pride in their work and can only do perfection. 

You think it an apt metaphor but decide not to dwell on it. No good can come of reading tea leaves that tell you what you already know. 

You ask her to just take a look at the AC unit instead, blasting hot air into your heat wave drive. You envision a trek across the continent in the swelter, windows open and asphalt burning the soles of your feet. America, is everything falling apart? 

Reader, are we staying on this path for good? 

Swelter

New York swims in a heat wave, sundressed youths pop out of the earth like mushrooms. Were they only lying in wait, enduring winter, ready to spring forth at the first sign of sunburn on the avenues? You suffer, but you love New York more than ever. 

You say that every year. 

(It's true every year, too.)

The writing bar is quiet enough for a Monday, a persistent chatter piercing through your lazy hot thoughts. You wander around your manuscript, wonder in the margins, stare out the window at the ripples on the street. All of summer lies ahead of you. Today I booked a ticket and it works every time, it never doesn't work, you should know to trust it by now. You book a ticket and the world lies at your feet. 

You book a ticket, 
and all the things that are to come
are too wonderful to tell. 

Central Park

They come from across the country, stand staring on a midtown avenue wide eyed and necks craned, but you like them too much to lose your patience. Indulge them along fifth avenue, past the tuk tuk hawkers, meander through central park and take a bow bridge group photo. You only get once chance to see New York for the first time, how can you deny them this silent awe? Here's the Bethesda fountain, you point, and wait for it to soak in. 

One time, 20 years ago, you saw this fountain for the first time, and felt things you couldn't yet put into words. 

Hell, one time, twenty minutes ago, you saw this fountain for the nth time and felt those things all over again. 

Summer swelters in the margins, you hear the voices calling you again. Who are you to say no? I leave now, but I am never gone
for good. 

Försommar

The first day of early summer weather arrives, at last, the city's people clamoring. The streets rumble with people, the ferries are full to the brim. Late at night, you hear fireworks in the bay. 

Your countdown turns to days now, not weeks or months. You show the apartment to people who might make it a home when you are gone. They promise to water the plants. 

It's too many feelings for one little body, too much joy and sorrow and confusions. They call from England and ask you to come to the countryside, offer their cars and describe how far it is to the pub. 

It's too many feelings for one little body. 
But you're going to feel them, all the same.  

I ljus och i mörker

The overflowing flower bouquets in your apartment start to wilt, start to come down from the novelty of celebration. A cluster of balloons drifts along the floorboards. There's symbolism here, but it would be too on the nose to point it out. You start to pack your things instead, start to prepare for another life. 

As you tend to do. 

You've never found a more satisfying solution to the dust bunnies than to pack it all up and leave. Never found a more cleansing process than saying goodbyes. You see how it brews in you like an illness, a boiling pot in need of release. In your quieter moments you look for ways to fix it. 

But in May you only look to open the door. 

 

Arrange

The to do list swells and devours your sanity, you're a balloon of anxiety, you get nothing done. Approach the tasks gently: one by one. Meander through the delightful streets of Brooklyn Heights to get a passport picture. A first in a sea of firsts. You don't know how to get work done when the sun beams in this particular way. 

Anyway, after that, you feel better. Anxiety bucks and weaves. 

But you know the high from checking something off the list. 

Know the value of a ticket in your pocket. 

And all the things that were to come
were too wodnerful not to tell.  

Oh, Shenandoah

Stand in a large courtroom, right hand held high, a small flag in your left. Hear jumbled words fall softly off your lips, in tandem with 157 other newly minted members of the Great Experiment. A judge stands at the front of the room, telling you what it is to be an immigrant, telling you how this country was built by your kind, and when he says congratulations, he means it. 

When you walk out of the courtroom, you let out a breath you've held for 33 years. 

Later that night, wrapped in novelty flags and the love of those who've carried you here, with the bartender announcing your feat to the room and playing Neil Young in your honor, you get one brief moment where everything is suspended in mid air. Nothing needs doing, nothing needs fixing or dissecting. For a brief moment over PBRs and nacho cheese and whimsy, you are only in the moment and nowhere else. 

America, you have given me all
and now I'm nothing.  

America two dollars and twentyseven cents

We've come a long way together, you and I. 

Where will we go,
next?