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i write for inner peace.

Prodigy Comes Home

8/2/2020

1 Comment

 
The object was to move.
​
So I spun: north, west, south, and east, searching for my center.
My first stop was a ferry terminal in Seattle where passengers came and went. Autumn afternoons ended early, and the promise of good coffee kept your eyes open in the rain.
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The object was to move higher, so I flew North for the summer.
​

I arrived at a train platform in uptown Chicago and stared at the silhouette of rooftops back-lit by neon marquees. It was slam poetry night. I met a girl who I began writing about, the kind that smiled at you to be polite and never wrote back. I rode the Red Line back to an empty hotel room, invisible as the wind they named the city after.
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The object was to move together, but I found myself drifting.
​

I drove to a church in D.C. for a spring wedding that wasn't mine. I stumbled out of the reception hall into a back alley bar named “Sovereign”.
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I froze on a bus stop bench in Milwaukee, below the Christmas lights that hung in the dead trees of an abandoned park.
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I dragged my baggage in circles through crowded airports, looking for my gate.
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The object was to keep moving. I got nowhere.

As a weeknight dinner conversation, I’d remind my daughter of the beaches we left behind in Florida.
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​We’d sit by the window of our 4F apartment in Raleigh while the spaghetti got cold.

"Look how far away the sidewalk is from here," she’d comment.

​We’d point at the tail lights of a passing car as if its glow was worth following.
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I’d tell her that shiny objects vanished like the moon if you looked for too long.

I dreamed of moving in all directions, eyes shut to how the lights inside a home revealed everywhere I could hope to go.
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1 Comment
David Ward link
11/5/2022 09:17:43 pm

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