She Remembers

We sat on a grassy hill in the country and spoke of life, as children climbed apple trees and leaves tumbled to their deaths around us. Sometimes I get overwhelmed by how much there is to say that the words refuse to leave my lips, but in the late afternoon sun time seemed infinite and I forgot to worry.

There's a spot, after you've turned, past the stoplight and the street rises over the hill, where the city skyline floats into view and it rests just at the edge of your vision like a beacon, like a promise. I contemplated a childhood with that backdrop and it played out like a film. She said something about leaving the city because it beat her when she returned to it, but when we emerged from the tunnel and were spewed out onto 42nd Street with the mad air of New York in tornadoes around us, all I felt was a peaceful calm that followed me all the way home.

I saw the streets beneath your feet, the parking lots and train tracks and dreams with your footprints all over them, the map paints itself in words not spoken, a strange soundtrack plays over the speakers but the melody seems familiar. Fall seeps in through the crooked windows but in the warm sunlight I took off my jacket, I think there's a metaphor in there and I didn't forget to worry after all, I only realized I didn't need to.