Empire State of Mind...

Cather Chronicle I

The diamond-studded expanse

flows for miles surrounding this

blanketed time capsule called

home. Nothing has ever looked

so sad or so beautiful. I can

almost feel Willa next to

me, the cold wet seeping

into our boots, shifting

our weights from foot to

foot to keep feeling, as though

the 360 degree cyclorama weren't

enough of a dusky rainbow

to remind us how full of

life we are. As the snow

stifles any green that

miraculously had held on

until early January, sullen

mauves breathe life to

life. I drift through drifts

of fallen sky and nostalgia.

Gone are the days of reckless

wandering, worn sheets that

held together tree-top forts,

screaming at trains as they

passed mere yards away, jars

full of dead lightening bugs.

Seventeen, sitting in the summer

darkness on the cool

refreshing pavement of

my driveway, intercepting

phone conversations

from houses away, waiting

for a baby-blue chariot to

tear, sparks flying, down

the street. They're present

only in the etched glass of

ice coating tree limbs.

The world is so still in

this place that it's hard

to believe that anything

has ever moved here before.

But the streets are throbbing

with light with color with

abandon. Willa's back. I

doubt if she ever really left.

I know, like she, that I'm

only repeating one of the

few human stories, retelling

it as though no on ever

has before. But both she

and I know better. The

hollow air, the beating shades

of winter, they're our tell,

chilling us much deeper than

temperature or fear or love

or nothingness.