Wander

The church is dark, bathed in a purple glow; there's no telling if it's dusk or dawn. Mountain ash trees are in bloom at last. The lilacs cover the entire block in thick scents, they seep through the streets. I sneak into the park, scissors in my purse, and snip a few thick branches--quickly, but desperate to linger. My entire apartment smells of summer.

We stayed too long at the bar last night, always too long, I tried to leave before midnight but what pumpkin was there for me to turn into anyways so we had another round. When all the other patrons had left, he turned on the music we are all too ashamed to admit we love and we sang along without care. Walk fast and laugh recklessly, he said and we giggled at his insanity but made it part of our song, determined to make it a part of our days as well. The world spins so quickly and do you realize on Saturday I've been here two years? It doesn't take a Freudian to see the pattern. I have settled in just enough to have to go. Just one more move, I declare but life draws out a map of habit and I am powerless to escape it. My parents move into a new apartment and laugh at their own madness. What have we done? she says but I have no answer.

The alarm will ring soon, much too soon, as I writhe in insomnia. I have no use for these mornings, these days. I only want twilight, and warm summer nights, and lilac-scented dawns to welcome in the street. The view over the sunsetting city took anyone's breath away tonight, the waters seem warm and inviting. Today my parents have been married 38 years. My mother says It was the first exam I failed; all I could think of was him and blossoming cherry trees. The power of May will fell even the greatest cynic. No alarm in the world can scare a heart in bloom.

Rise

And how the air is thick with the scent of lilacs. We walked along the water, in the afternoon sun, the sailboats newly lifted into a sea that glittered so much that it hurt the eye, and I couldn't walk a hundred feet without commenting on how beautiful it all was. Hours later, the night darkened for but an instance, my church looming across the channel, silhouetted against the burgeoning dawn, we walked across the bridge and our feet never tired. By the time I reached my steps, morning light lay gray across the church stones, but the horizon was still on fire. Birds went mad in the crab apple blossoms, no one has time for sleep.

I forget, every year I forget, how magical this moment is. For a few short days, everything lives, everything is mad with hope and reckless abandon, everything is beautiful. Every year I think this is good and do not realize until that morning comes that the rest of the year is but a bleak shadow, a failed copy of what life may truly be. The winter is long, and dark, and terrifying. But it is behind us now. It may never have existed at all.

The sun rises, the apartment is light. My eyes refuse to tire.

I live.

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.

Like Saccharin

More wine, more ignorant bliss, the weekend passes in a tumult of nausea and you watch yourself from two feet over, amazed at the car crash in action. By Sunday, you cannot sleep but you cannot leave the bed, you starve but cannot eat, you toss between fits of apathy and waves of angst, it is not pretty. The number of toothbrushes in the bathroom has changed. The plants on the windowsill have gone wild; it is a jungle, and you no longer need to look straight into the lives of your neighbors across the street.

I tire of writing in the first person, but I cannot be with others for more than little moments at a time or I implode, wither, and then what else is there to say. I imagine you understand. A giant tome of Pushcart-prized short stories simmers through my line of vision. They all describe the world, they all speak of third person and scenery details, but I pick them apart ruthlessly to give myself a break. It doesn't help. Outside, it rains: a welcome rain, kind. The screams of amusement park visitors fly across the water. The wind must be just right. Tomorrow is Monday, again.

The world keeps spinning.
What are you going to do about it?

of You

Write something happy, she says. When you write happy things, I print them out and put them on my message board. I would love to oblige, but where is the glittering rainbow, in all this Normality?

Another voice comes down the line, says that's what we do. We endure this monotony for one instant of magic, and I suppose she is right. It just seems there was more magic to be had, previously. I refuse to believe this is age, or that was naïvite, that we are victims of insight and no more early mornings of sunrise and giggles are to be had. I refuse to believe we are too old to be blown away.

The bird cherries bloom, the trees have exploded and the air is thick with sweet smells, it is overwhelming. My heels click, click all along the quiet side-streets, Saturday night and it ends too early, too according to plan. I walk past office windows: publishers, artists, photographers, entrepreneurs. There is a life out there for the taking, and I am tempted to accept that which is easily given, but I must not.

A fire burns inside you unwilling to accept complacency and comfort. Let it burn, to the ground.
The fireworks will catch up,
eventually.

Independence Day

Too much wine, too much everything, she fed me water until I could stand straight but my eyes would not follow suit. Finally making my way home and if this was New York I would be hailing a cab faster than I could fall off this curb but none were to be had. The last steps up the hill impossible; the park around the church was quiet where just hours before we were packed like sardines staring into the sun.

Things end, eventually but never gracefully. It makes sense, she said at my declaration, you're going to New York and isn't this what you do. Realizing that when I ended it with her that was exactly what lay at my feet. I amass this rubble around me and climax at leaving it all behind. Clean floors. Clean slates.I fought so hard to find a way out, only to realize the drug of staying in was stronger.

Ticket sales
are
up.

Yet.

What have I done? He can't be more than 22. We laughed at the bar, but her face was tinged with shame over what Life had become. When I was 22, what hadn't I done?

I stared into the corners and thought of 22. Of that summer I spent in an unknown bedroom with white walls because his face reminded me of you, and still the mornings showed me nothing else did. All these years later, your eyes still break my heart. We didn't want to leave the bar.

The doors closed behind us, and there was just a flicker of light at the horizon. The cherry tree blossoms had that scent about them, the air chilly but hopeful. Another day beckons.

We still don't spend our mornings
within the same walls.
I still spend my nights wishing we did.