Oh. Sorry. Hello. Are you on your way to work, too?
I was just taken aback by how you also have a briefcase,
also small & brown. I was taken by how you seem, secretly,
to love everything. Are you my new coworker? Oh. I see. No.
Still, good to meet you. Iβm trying out this thing where itβs good
to meet people. Maybe, beyond briefcases, we have some things
in common. I like jelly beans. Iβm afraid of death. Iβm afraid
of farting, even around people I love. Do you think your mother
loves you when you fart? Does your mother love you
all the time? Have you ever doubted?
I like that the street weβre on is named after a tree,
when there are none, poplar or otherwise. I wonder if a tree
has ever been named after a street, whether that worked out.
If I were a street, I hope Iβd get a good name, not Main
or One-Way. One night I ran out of an apartment,
down North Pleasant Streetβββit was soft & neighborly
with pines & oaks, it felt too hopeful,
after what happened. After my motherβs love
became doubtful. After I told her I liked a boy & she wished
I had never been born. After she said she was afraid
of me, terrified I might infect my brothers
with my abnormality. Sometimes, parents & children
become the most common strangers. Eventually,
a street appears where they can meet again.
Or not. Iβve doubted my own love for my mother. I doubt.
Do I have to forgive in order to love? Or do I have to love
for forgiveness to even be possible? What do you think?
Iβm trying out this thing where questions about love & forgiveness
are a form of work Iβd rather not do alone. Iβm trying to say,
Letβs put our briefcases on our heads, in the sudden rain,
& continue meeting as if weβve just been given our names.
snowghoul
titsay
yousharknotpass
germansingergirl
discoholicmusic
gummygunk
turnnoffyourmind
kaledo-art
