It’s that time of year
when the air is unseasonably warm,
summer’s last push,
last bounce
on the trampoline,
before the street lights
come on
and her mother
tells her it’s time
to come inside.
I tilt my head
and lean it back,
closing my eyes,
allowing the mixed smell
of tide water
and seat leather
to drive me elsewhere,
back to the river streets
and cobblestone houses
of South Georgia
where my journey began.
The warm night air
fills my lungs
with longing
and nostalgia
more than smoke,
and for a split second,
I’m there:
With the crickets singing,
and the salty spray of the ocean
from the thunderbolt islands
filling my empty places,
in ways
that no other person
ever could.
And I don’t feel
brave
or powerful,
or even beautiful,
I just feel
in control,
and that’s
enough for
me.
There is no wishing,
no hoping,
no dreaming
for a better tomorrow.
Just the contentment
of not knowing
which direction I face,
but the
understanding
that I am going
somewhere.
I wrote a poem, once, called "Passenger Seat" when I was 18 and completely in love with everything around me and the people who were taking me there.
Now, almost 5 years later, that poem has been rewritten. And I have, too.