Walking down the dirty streets while taking notes on my brain, a mourning dove stares me down. It’s stuck to the back of the car. I walk right up to the poor bird and it’s whispering something to me. But I can't make it out. All I can think is, how did the bird get stuck to the trunk of the car?
I want to pull it off, but it tells me to keep walking, through its beady little eyes. I take a step away and its head rotates slowly like a doll, following me. I go on.
The spring snowfall of the white blossoms gently rain down on me. The tiny petals—like confetti fall in my hair. My hair hasn't been this long since I was 13. I remember how I was forced to cut it short at one point—and how I dreamt of having it long. But it’s all dead now and I still hold onto it.
I look up to my left across the street and see a man and his white-muzzled mutt sitting on a fire escape. The window is wide open behind them. The man takes a last drag of his cigarette and flicks the butt off, 3 stories down onto the sidewalk. He looks at his dog like he’s the light of his life. He tussles the dog’s head, grinning. The dog licks his face.
I cross E Houston and a man is waving a plastic wand around in the air leaving a trail of bubbles behind him. School children, no older than five, are catching the glistening orbs in their hands. I walk down Norfolk. When I get to the corner of Stanton, a single bubble is following me, carried in the breeze.
It traveled a lot of way (for a bubble) to get to this side of the block. Avoided cars and bikes and trees and scaffolding and kids and dogs and signs and birds and buildings… Just to meet me here.
Something is different. It’s like the saturation has been turned up. This isn't the same city I was in yesterday? Or last year? I haven't been here since I was a kid. It’s been over a decade since I've been here.
Last time I tried to come back here, it was gone. So I went somewhere else. And that place was gone too. Like an old movie set, abandoned. Just left how it was when the show was on. All the actors had gone home.
But now, I'm here, and this place still exists.
I cross the river—up and over. The golden sunlight makes everything look romantic from up here. I look down, watching the river rush. I want to float on the surface and let it carry me. I remember swimming in the Mississippi as a kid. How I was always warned it could pull me under in its strong currents. That it took so many people. And I just floated on top knowing it could take me too, but all those times it chose not to.
A gust of wind sways the bridge and pushes me forward. Like invisible hands pushing me along. ‘Hurry, hurry, hurry!’ it’s saying. But why? For once I want to stop running and stop chasing. Not stop. I’ll keep moving. But I'll take my time.
A mile more: When I get to the river bank I remember how quickly things can bloom. The grass is lush and the trees’ leaves are beyond budding. They have leaves! I’ve lived many lives since the last I saw leaves on trees. I sit down in the grass, surrounded by these young trees and red berry bushes.
The sunset’s gold shimmers on the blue, blue, deep blue river. I watch the sailboats pass by with the periwinkle city skyline resting in the background. I hear the echoes of kids laughing somewhere in the distance.
That cloud looks like a dragon and the sun is its fire coming from its mouth.
The thick, crescent moon is resting above my head like a crown. And the jet is a shooting star.
I remember how I prayed for a place like this. For so many years. I didn’t know where I was praying for, but I knew I wanted this. I was so deprived of life at one point where my only dream was to see a sunset. To feel a breeze on my face. To see a body of water again. To sit in grass. Really—I would close my eyes and fantasize about sitting on a river on a warm summer evening. Surrounded by butterflies. A bumble bee just landed on my boot. I watch its fuzzy body crawl around. I forgot what I was just thinking about.
I notice the spider's webs reflecting in the sunlight strung across the thick grass strands. I feel a tickle on my hand. I watch a tiny bug crawl across my hand, I’m so still. The bug rests there for a moment. I’m one of you. I am you.
The river’s waves break against the shore. I blush the way it looks at me. You know all my secrets. I’ve told you everything. I’ve told you the deepest, darkest parts of my mind. You hold all of my wishes and desperate prayers.
They all blew away in the sky didn’t they?
I lay my head down in the grass. I feels cold, like a perfect pillow. I feel so close to the earth. My ear pressed against the surface drowning out a lot of sound. The birds chirping, the laughter, it’s all faint and far away now. I feel so present. I can hear the tiniest things moving in the grass. Like the earth is breathing. The sunlight is beaming through the trees onto my face—minutes away from disappearing behind the stories.
I see strands of my hair tangled in the little white flowers. I think I could grow here. It’s funny how being sober doesn’t feel much different though. Nothing ever feels real. I don’t think this is how it feels to others. I don’t think this is right. Why am I always in a daze of sorts? It’s NOT poetic. I know it’s the brain damage from a little stroke or two.
It doesn’t help the cause that my mind’s always somewhere else too. I remember one time I got so high in your bedroom. I stared at that big tree outside your window and saw it breathing. I remember how I believed I was a tree too. How strongly I believed I never needed to eat again. That all I needed was to be planted in your back yard and would live off of the sunlight. You laughed at me and said, “you’re just remembering. You were a tree in another life.” You grinned. My favorite smile.
Wait— pause. I want to remember you like this. Just for a second.
Ok. Resume scene.
“That was the easier life.” I said somberly.
I remember that same night I asked where the love went. And you said it was still right here.
I’m right here in the grass sinking deeper and deeper. I feel so close to becoming a flower blooming myself. I’m setting with the sun now.
I feel my eyes getting heavy. Lazily drowning on the sleepless river. I hear the April chimes. What a nostalgic song this is.
A young man sits down on a rock in front of the trees, looking out to the river. His silhouette blocks the sun. Just this detail-less figure of someones back. It looks like an aura of pure golden light around him. He’s glowing. He’s on fire. He took my light! That’s okay. It’s kind of a heavenly looking scene.
A white sail passes down the river so slowly. I let my eyes get heavier until they close. I feel safe here. This isn’t just a place in my mind anymore.
I’ll just rest here.
For a little bit.
I prayed for freedom and this was my idea of freedom. It was all about the little things. And I have it. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I lived to see it! And now the little things aren't so little.
….
I open my eyes looking straight up at an indigo sky. The moon man is looking down on me, singing that same old song.
“It’s time to go home now.”