Written 25 July 2007
I thought of you today
When eating a tomato.
You don’t like tomatoes,
So I thought of you.
So this is New York. Each block has a different smell. Some sting, some sweet, some dry, some damp, each one different. And there’s a slight shaking I only notice at night, in bed, from the subway below, as if my shelves will fall on my head. Death by books and DVDs, it can’t be that uncommon.
There is no bolt on the door.
YELLING. Laundromat. Development. Stores shut down. Whitewashing. YELLING.
I thought of you, no I think of you.
I allow myself to be reminded of you
By the slightest thing I see, feel, taste, touch.
A slight dip in the pavement,
Kabob cooking on a cart,
Arabic spoken quickly,
Trips to the store, subway rides, school visits, bills unpaid, bills to be paid, rebates sent and resent, ID cards, peanut butter.
It’s mostly the peanut butter.
Inside my room it is as if I am anywhere I have been. McLean, Falls Church, Manassas, Arlington, Oxford, Elizabeth, it does not matter. It is only once I step outside I realize I am somewhere new, and I think it has yet to really set in. Maybe once I try to stop by to say hello for the 23rd time and realize they are over 100 miles away. Maybe then it will set in.
Right now someone is yelling outside. Again. It will become part of my everyday and when I return to Virginia or move somewhere else where there is no yelling I will wonder why it is so quiet.