I can’t help but think about you on Wednesday mornings, while I’m on the train. Looking out of the window passing by new cities, crossing state lines like a fugitive on the run, flirting with the idea of just going back. You used to speak softly to me on the phone, late at night, until you didn’t want to talk anymore. And then, like the final burning moment of a fire cracker, your raspy voice would come to life to remind me, Distance is hard and I just don’t know if I.. and I’d cut you off, or pretend the call dropped, or scream really loudly like I was chanting “Happy New Year!”, just to distract you, to allow you to swallow the tail end of a comment I would never be ready to hear.
If only we could rearrange the states, I would often say.
The sound of your poppy seed color eyeballs rolling on the other end of the phone came through in your final sigh.
I’ll pass Maryland before I’ll spy Delaware, fly through Pennsylvania before smelling New Jersey, and then, alone, I’ll crawl back into New York. The states, you used to assure me, align themselves so simply.
So then why can’t we?
can we go by plane or boat?