spring break is over

You spend your days seeing good art and watching butterflies float in the rafters, then land on leaves.

You spend your quarters on juke box songs and pool games; a few dollars on bourbon.

You hear the inspirational words of a theatre artist and wonder about Sierra Leone.

You hear the beautiful music of friends and, smiling at their charm and talent, leap to your feet with the rest of the crowd when they say they are done, keeping your fingers crossed that they don’t mean it.

You visit your past. You dream about your future.

You (almost) fix your computer in seven small steps,
and clear your desk

You wander museums and the neighborhood between where you find yourself one afternoon, and where you need to go. A neighborhood you’ve never been in, you find so much.

You pull out the novel you wrote three years ago and start editing.

You dance – just a bit.

One night you go to bed at 3am; you fall asleep at 10:30 the next.

One day you sleep until almost 10, and find yourself up at 5:30 on another,
and so you write while looking out at the sunny morning,
curled up in a blanket, drinking tea,
remembering that this is one of your favorite things to do.

You eat, you cook,
you edit your resume,
you clean your house.

And one day, you wake up and these days are in the past.

Spring break is over,
and you move into a new kind of day.
A transition day of glazed eyes staring at you from behind small desks,
eyes that wonder if they are really back,
the bodies of these eyes shivering
and counting the days until May.

Shivering with them,
in sympathy,
you teach the lesson.

Later, on the way to the train station, remembering this daily schedule, this daily walk,
as if from a million years ago and hardly a minute ago,
you hear a boy ask if you’d like to buy some chocolate.

You smile and say, “Not today, thank you,” and he smiles back.

And you wonder if that,
just that (his offer, your smile),
is enough.

At least for today.


Talk to me.

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