Friday, August 17, 2012
Last night I dreamt of yard sales and marble statues, a baseball coach who was a sore loser and some rushing water, like Niagara Falls in the middle of the street. This morning I stood and scooped coffee into the well, my hair too long, a short notice from an old friend in my head, the stealth of fall in New York City, that gray bite of the sidewalk. Past, present, future. When I reached for the sugar on the highest shelf, I might have gone there, the past, I might have caught the tail of long ago love and my small children, peals of laughter and shreds of melancholy, but I let it swim by, pulled the sugar down and stirred it into my coffee.