I am drifting.

I am drifting.
The ocean washes
in and
out.
I feel my feet floundering
wave
after wave
after wave.

There is nothing to stop me
in my path,
no sand
or boards
or walk.

They're gone.

Like me.

There is nothing to grab me,
to shake me,
to wake me

because this can't be

(please
don't let it be)

real.

The skyline is dark
again tonight.

I just want to go

home.

I've been taking baby breaths,

hoping the air will revive me,
waiting for its sweet
sounds to flutter
down my windpipe
and into my 
restless core.

Churning-
acid tears lining,
acid tears blinding

and I
stumble.

Swallow.

I've been taking baby breaths,

hoping I will learn
to breathe.

Tides, Breath, In and Out

And so summer turns to fall with a taste of winter, and here I am again. The sounds are the same but the feelings are different, and I struggle with these words on my page. They're asking for my justifications. They're asking for my self. I'm not sure how to answer.

Maybe I will tell them of my dreams of dancing, of feet barefoot on sand, of flying. I'll describe the taste of passion, its saltwater sweetness, and how it trickles before it falls. I'll tell them of yearning, of mornings spent with sunrises and of evenings with sleepless dreams. I'll smile. They'll laugh. We'll live in our world of pretendings.

I want it too much.

That makes things dangerous.

That means it's going to hurt.

I've been teaching myself to face reality, but it is so easy to drift into dreams, into worlds of limitless possibilities and unindentured hope. I think you understand.

Tonight I miss the ocean. I want to go back home.

A Man, A Plan, A Canal Panama

There’s a pizzeria on the corner of Prinsengracht and Rozengracht with Chagall windows and a man who calls me gorgeous when he touches my arm and says goodnight. I wonder what else he’d say to me, a New York girl with a last name of flowers, who ordered pasta and a Long Island iced tea, without the Long Island, because that would say too much. 

I wonder what he’d tell himself, how much he’d understand, how much I’d let him know.

And now with an ocean between us and my view of the Manhattan skyline, I find myself falling back into apathy.

But with a hint of want.

Dangerous–

            like looking in mirrors when you know your perception’s cracked.

And I do.

I’m past the dock and across the canal and the reflection is distorted so it must be okay. The streets are clean until they’re filled. With people. And then with their remains. Reminders that life has been lived. Is being lived.

I want to live. 

Rest and Repose

The Sabbath day is approaching. In a couple of hours, the sun will bid farewell. The couples will walk to shul and split at the mehitza, and the Friedmans and the Carlebachs will be heard again. The streets will speak in Yeshivish and the shabbat shaloms will sound.

New York City takes a breath and smiles.

Even she can learn repose.

There is a scent in the air that seems to promise stillness. There is a scent that fills her soul with hope.

Eyelids flutter.

The musicians are painting murals as the artists stop and stare. Red. Silver. She curls into herself and uncovers color. She thinks they'll understand.

Hand takes hand and she is no longer falling. She feels worthy of being saved.

The Queen will soon reveal her presence. I bow low and accept her prayer.

Cherry Trees

Sometimes, March comes in like a lamb. You sleep, he wakes, and February returns to slumber. It's all in the subtleties- in the scent of new breeze and whisper of spring approaching, in the defrosting of crocuses as they prepare to bloom. It's in the way the men have switched from fleece to cotton and in the gentle brush of hair against cheek.

I close my eyes and breathe tranquility. I need this moment to relearn Earth's spin.

Mahar

With enough power, you can defy gravity. With enough speed, you can escape its grasp. For a weekend, you can disappear into a world of faith and security and open your eyes to life anew. You can taste the ruach and the koach, the spirit and the strength, and you can hold hands with seventy others and fill a room with sanctity.

We are not the leaders of tomorrow. We are the leaders of today.

Peopling

The year is 1886 and great-great-grandpa Rubin is on his sixteenth day of exhaustion. The conditions are steerage and the promise is America and he is alone, but not. He is a month too soon for Lady Liberty's welcome, but somehow, he still sees Her flame. He breathes in the New York City soot and smiles.

Flicker.

Boot heels meet cobblestone and he wonders how much life one can grasp in the palm of a hand.

Flicker.

He strokes Martha's face on the proof of his promise. He knows he can achieve.

Fade.

The year is 2011 and she finds herself revisiting. Her thoughts toss and tumble with the nights she cannot sleep. She doesn't call it loneliness, but she feels it all the same. Cars chatter outside her window. The coffee mug has been filled. Another evening. Another morning. A new day.

Flicker.

The sun is shining, but the season is still cold.

Flicker.

The medication stopped working days ago. She lies awake and dreams.

Flicker.

Her image of self is wavering. She borders on transparent. She knows not what to do.

Fade.

Realization

It hits you in the strangest of moments, that scent of something lost. It's 3 am and the pictures are scattered across her bed again. If you ask her, she'll tell the truth this time. Things are not okay.

Snow has been cleared from most of the parking garage. The lampposts are always shining. Music is playing through computer speakers. For tonight, silence is too loud. She's not ready for that. She's not ready for that yet.

She's not ready to be alone.

When she closes her eyes, she remembers the smell of latkes that always seemed to linger and the nights she shared her bed. She remembers bagel breakfasts and eight hour car rides. She remembers party hats and streamers and acting out Purim spiels. She remembers tickling and laughter and arms wrapped around her.

She's feeling naked now. She needs someone to hold.

She wishes she had never let go.

Renewal and Rabbit Holes

When you're standing across from a man for ten minutes, he begins to look familiar. You wonder if you've seen him before or if a shared subway ride can really be that intimate. You close your eyes to remember his face- laugh lines, glasses, winter cap covering graying hair. You wonder what he's scribbling in his notebook, leather-bound, and what he thinks of your bed-headed, Starbucks-sipping self. The 1 pulls into Times Square. You exit. He doesn't look up.

El Diario is sitting across from The New York Times and next to a Chinese paper I will probably never understand. For a moment, three worlds align. I stand and bear witness. It's empowering in a way.

Is it possible to be exhausted yet refreshed?

Once again, I find myself with questions. Once again, the reading is responsive, and my words have been scripted, and I know what I am saying, but I do not understand. I am searching for reasons, uncovering wood and stone, rifling through memory, reading facts on Snapple caps.

The ground upon which we stand is wrought with faults.

Life is fragile.

I lean into the wind.

Life is fragile.

From this moment forward, I vow to make mine count.

Pomegranate Seeds

There is so much life that I am living. There are meetings and concerts and classes and moments and the world keeps turning and the smiles keep fleeting and flitting as I New York City step around you. I love the feel of excitement and the way it lingers in the air. I love the taste of promise and the grinding of gears as another puzzle piece is laid in its place. A picture is slowly evolving. I love watching it unfurl.

The year is 2011, and while its eve brought seven days of grief, I have seen another morning. Life is in full force now and it is exhilarating. Day to day is not a monotony for each sunrise brings another thrill.

I missed the childhood wonder, but it's so easy to fall back into it again.

Each sunset has its own brilliancy and each snowflake its special flare. Each passerby has her own story to share and I want nothing more than to listen.

I've started making lists again, but this time, I think it's different. This time, I'm not afraid to breathe.

Bubbe

Life is never quite real until it happens.

I watched for years as she slowly slipped away. I watched the forgetting. I watched the regression. I waited for the day when she could say "I love you too" no longer. I hoped it would never come, but seasons change and years pass and the innocence of first snowfall is broken. White turns to gray, beauty to slush, and Death reaches out his shriveled fingers. I know she couldn't refuse.

I miss my grandmother. I miss the woman who laughed and tickled and did everything to make me smile. I miss the woman who played with me in pajamas and saved me from the Wicked Witch and made funny faces as soon as the camera flashed. I miss the lingering smell from latkes and the hours of anticipation New Hampshire bound. I miss the laughing and the hugging and the coming together again. I miss having a Bubbe to call my own.

The mirrors are covered, but I've stopped looking anyhow, and instead of ball drops, funeral bells will reign. The world keeps turning. New Years is on the way.

K. 545

Sometimes, I like to retreat into the furrows of my mind and toy with imagination. I like to curl into myself and allow myself to wonder. It's become less about answers and more about journeys, and as I meander the crevices of my thoughts again, I find myself content. 

I met a boy on the bus today who knew me with a glance. We'd never met before, but he looked at me and smiled, and when our eyes met, I was bare. I know he knew it too. I didn't ask and he didn't tell. I never caught his name. 

I had a friend knock on my door earlier to see if I was here. I answered. He saw through my facade and uncovered my exhaustion. They're begging me to sleep. 

My joints are cracking more than usual. I lean into the stretch. G major, but begging to resolve. I see tonic on the horizon, but the sun has already set. 

Tomorrow. 

There's a world of possibility and I'm aching to discover it. My shoulder grinds in its socket. My toes tangle with carpet. Tea tonight was chamomile. Cup number three is cooling.

Tomorrow. 

Why do we live to wait for sunrise? Why do we crave the break of day?

Tomorrow.

The development is just as beautiful. Dark does not suddenly turn light, and I love the moments of gray.

Tomorrow.

I know C major is dawning. I'll sit and watch it unfold.

Rekindling

I've claimed my corner of the library and have plans to watch the days tick by. I take comfort in the pen on paper, the highlighter yellow and pink and purple brightening my page. The sky is dark now, but tonight we light another candle. Tonight another spark will burn.

December chill is in the air. I feel it. I feel the cold and the wind and the moments of unease. The clock is running and the time is flying and I'm still taking baby steps.

I am determined not to fail.

You see, there's so much light between cracked corners. There's so much warmth in a friendly stare, in a gentle touch, in a laughing voice across the miles. Currents lace from me to you and I know Winter must mean well.

Thanks Giving

November leaves have fallen. It's just above freezing and only getting colder. It will take months to defrost. But tonight it doesn't matter. Tonight I still feel warm.

I'm holding on to the things that matter. I'm letting the rest float away with the breeze. I am not Atlas. The Earth is not mine to bear. I have the right to be free.

Flowers in the Dark

She's running away from her problems. Every day, for at least two miles. And she knows the elliptical isn't moving, but she can't bear to stand still. So she faces east in the window and she runs.

And there are things she doesn't tell you. Like how she wants to be a singer, but doesn't think she can. And how she doesn't like to sleep alone. And how she doesn't wear a jacket so she can pretend it isn't cold. And how she's afraid to say goodbye.

She wishes that you knew.

She loves the feel of empty and the taste of words as they flow onto a page and how she sometimes sees you smile from the corner of her eye.

You have a beautiful smile.

In the mornings she craves completion and in the evenings a simple dream. Eyes close, but there is no slumber. She reminds herself to live in the moment, breathe in morning and the freshness of new day. Possibility. Wonder.

She's only seventeen.

She needs to learn to be a child again.

Daylight Savings

I watched the clocks lose their bearings, go from progress back to one. The world was quiet. There should have been applause.

I'm pushing people away again. I'm watching from afar. She giggles. She takes his hand. He doesn't let go.

I just want to feel warm.

The winds are blowing and the winter is coming. Brown and tired, the last leaves take their falls. Gravity wins again. I stopped fighting years ago.

Milk and Cookies

I've asked the scholars and the rabbis and the homeless on the streets. I've wandered through gardens, over bridges, past sculptures in the park. I don't know what I'm looking for, but I haven't found it yet.

Midnight fades to early morning. Between the skyline and parking garage, there's always light outside my window. It reminds me that I'm not alone.

New York City, I can hear you breathing. I want to feel you near. It's me and my words again, but I know you're always listening. Late nights become sleepless nights become early mornings. You don't sleep either, though. I think you understand.

New York City, when was the last time you closed your eyes? Did you dream of Autumn's sweet vanilla or of Summer's burning gaze? Did you wake refreshed or feverish? Hot or cold?

Do you ever dream of me?

I want to learn your secrets. I want to traverse your undergrounds and walk across your stones. Pitter against patter. Heel clicks and clatters. Coffee on the run. Silence.

I think you understand.

456

Do they make love

with their words

or with their hands

(ripped,

calloused,

torn with reminders

yet soft to the touch)

bleeding beneath the sheets?

Passion or regret?

He remembers what he lost

and what he has to lose

and for whom he will not fight.

She shudders.

There's a coldness

through the sheets

and he calls it Winter

but she knows

it's someone else.

She knows,

but she knows

that she knows

that she knows

that she knows

that crying does no good.

That she will remember.

He used to call her beautiful.

That she wants to forget.

Baalat Teshuva

Time is escaping me. It is disappearing beneath the horizon on the wings of birds who forgot to fly.

I don't do thunderstorms well.

When late night hours turn to early morning hours turn to another sleepless night you forget to be transparent. The insomnia is lacing your words again and mother isn't fooled. You forgot your raincoat and your rainboots and your rainbows at the door. This isn't like the movies. If you go outside, you will get wet.