Ticker Tape

New York City remains.
Except for a new bicycle lane along Hudson Street, not much has changed. I step out in jet lagged vacation airs to find people hurrying to work with iced coffees and clothes a precise mix of heat proof and professional. Walk along the river where a few late morning joggers weave past nannies and their babies. My skin smells of sunshine and just a hint of salt. The absurdity of change twists through my synapses. It is at once like I was never gone, and like I haven't been here for years. My body has grown new edges, and I shift to make them fit again.

An old typewriter has made its home on a desk in the corner of my cramped room on Morton Street. I while away hazy hours clack-clack-clacking silly nonsense and fragile honesties onto its rolls. Something tangible about creating words straight to paper that means you cannot hide from them. Rules for Living a Life.

1. Do things that scare you. 

Ache

Let's make this one quick and painless, I can't cry anymore. It isn't true, of course, I have oceans of tears left and I'll wring myself dry before this is over. We stand in the courtyard hugging, but I look away when they walk out. Remind myself of the west village streets that await me. He says, I want the kids and the family and the home, you know, but the airport radio says tramps like us, baby we were born to run, and you're not sure if he believes his own words. You see travel in his eyes, and it stirs the nerve endings in your spine so you can't sleep. A huge storm passed through the city, storms are always stirring when you prepare to go, perhaps it is your wake up call. My brown skin and pink feet arrange themselves properly, pack their bags like a thousand times before. I want to settle down.

But you don't know what it means. 

And baby,

You were born to run. 

I dos

At last the sweltering heat began to calm. Wedding guests tossed their suit jackets and high heels into the soft grass and ran into the lake. We passed cold beer cans and swam into the sunset, laughing. 

I sat later on a rock in at the edge, after everyone had left, and thought how these were my last moments of quiet, of calm light evenings and friendship the kind that lasts for ever. The bride and groom were so nervous in the car, but they laughed more than they cried. I thought whatever I'm choosing instead of this had better be worth it. 

All I have now are words. I will them to fill the void that follows me back home. 

Enough

The streets look the same. You know every dimple in the concrete, every curve in the road. You borrow her bike and ride up to the old neighborhood; the left side of the street that used to be thick forest is all houses now, and the hill isn't as overwhelming as when you were a child, but here it is. The house looks smaller. We were happy here, weren't we? You ask yourself but the simple answers are hard to come by. The days are all hot, beautiful, and we go swimming at every chance. You haven't the time to consider what anything means. They don't ask questions, so neither do you. 

It is too easy to walk around here and pretend I didn't live my life in a whole other world than this one. But departure approaches. We wake up from our dreams, eventually. 

Stroked

There is only 

Sun

And sand

And sea,

Only those short moments underneath the surface in the cool, still waters when my mind is washed clean and my heart can beat without stumbling. 

There is only

Right here

Right now. 

Some times, there is a quick jab at my gut that says the real world quickly approaches, but they are few, and short, and I can mostly ignore them until they pass. My suitcase is scuffed at the edges, its contents a mess of crumpled clothes and discarded ambitions. 

I forget 

it is not all I have. 

The Good Land

I'm nervous now, she said, her billowing white skirt filling the entire front seat of the car. The a/c was turned up to maximum capacity, the July sun beating down outside. He turned to her, quiet first. I am, too.

I walked ahead of them into the glade, a hundred of their dearests gathered around the flowered bow in anticipation. When her oldest friend sang, and the sunlight glittered through the hazel leaves, and everyone held their breaths, she cried. It was perfect. 

The party began to peter out as peach-colored dawn spread quietly over the misty fields beyond the glade. I saw them softly swaying at the edge of the dance floor, leaning on each other with quiet smiles on their lips. The world around them looked no different than before. 

And still, somehow, how everything was New. 

Your Wall

Days pass, weeks, in idyllic summer days, all lush green grass and unwavering sunshine. My skin grows brown, my breaths deep. I forget to write, not for lack of words but for lack of minutes spent in solitude. We share the same bed; it's been this way for years and you never consider it. She plays records at the downtown club and you tip the velvet rope with ease. Walk home past the old apartment--another home lost and it doesn't make you feel a thing. Your grandmother giggles that same way even when she can't remember your name. It doesn't matter: you never forget the way she has loved you. 

Brooklyn picked you up at the train station. Leaving the city has gashed a hole in their hearts they do not yet know how to repair. You owe them words, you owe them everything. We go for a swim under the full moon. 

Everything burns

To the ground.