Two winters ago I would chain-smoke spirits on my way to work in the early mornings;
windows down, blueish fingertips,
driving through the gunks into the sunrise, Leonard Cohen on repeat—
I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel
I would drive home much the same way, sometimes going the long way
to catch the sunset;
my sunless days, nestled between 4 stiff walls
The world was grey;
grey pavement
grey skies
grey walls
grey smoke
It must be this way forever, I thought.
that February was the coldest month I remember being alive—
This year the windows are up, the sun is bright, I keep my car
warm.
In the passenger seat;
a bag of sweet sesame rice crackers, an apple, lime seltzer, a little jacket, my journal, tiny socks—
I reach my hand in the backseat
when Winona cries,
let her wrap her tiny fingers
around my thumb, "I'm here,
sweet girl"
I pull into a park on
the river— we get out
watch the trees
sway, the breeze
paints our faces rose, we
orient ourselves in this
big, unfamiliar
world. she reaches her hand
out as if to grab the falling leaves, a
wonderous look on her soft face—
she smiles,
she touches my face,
just months old and she knows
my voice
she knows
my safety—
for a moment,
nothing else exists,
the world doesn't know
we're here—
for a moment, it's just us,
like it was in that hospital room
not too long ago
for a moment, there is
peace—
I wonder if I'll remember this
in 60 years,
when both our hands
will have wrinkled, mine more
than hers; when crows' feet
ordain our eyes;
when I've lived my life, and she's
well into hers. I know
she won't remember,
I hope I do—
