Seaside

The church steeple was swathed in a heavy fog this morning. The cherry blossoms still spread their pink petals on the sidewalks; stressed commuters don't know whether to wear jackets or sundresses, everyone is uncomfortable. The alcohol's run out, I am forced to bury myself in work. The hours pass, heavy clouds lie low around my temples and the office empties out. Finally the alarm comes on and I am chased into the street.

As I walk, the rain picks up. But it's too late now, I've committed to these steps, I've committed to this long walk home and the bus passes by without stopping. On the bridge to the Old Town, a group of girls make selfies under their umbrellas and no filter can make the city less gray. But the wind swerves around the old buildings and sweeps past my loud music and guarded steps. It comes from the East and smells of the sea. Musty, salty, the smell of frozen secrets thawing into spring. It feels like a west coast storm, the kind where the horizon is endless, and the looming houses of the South Island are tinged in quiet mist. The promenade is empty.

For a while, I thought you might be my excuse not to go. That I was hoping for a reason to stay, a reason to add my brick to mortar and make a living in this city after all. But the void in your wake fills quickly with images of Morton Street in autumn, of dirty subway rides and magnolia blossoms in the park, of that wind which whispers a lifetime of dreams. Now that you are gone, I needn't look for signs and reasons.

There is no cure for this itch inside me.
I hide the pill
under my tongue
and spit it out when no one is watching.
Ready
the
spring
in
my
step.