Mommy? Why are you crying?
*9/11. Always in our hearts*
I miss you. I miss the smell of summer, our neighbor smoking his pipe late at night. I miss the laughter of children across the street, every morning at exactly eight o’clock. I miss dad’s snore, horribly loud yet comforting. I miss my bed, the one I slept in every night for 17 years. I miss it all, and I want it back. That’s right, I want you back New York. I want home.
No matter the circumstances, it could always be worse.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings.”
I sleep with a water bottle because I’m too scared to get out of bed for a drink in the dark…
He walked, slow-footed, down the narrow alleyway, the sky turning a pinkish orange. “Mmm..” he hummed, lips parted just enough as he inhaled the tobacco his body so willingly embraced. There was something so enticing about his demeanor. His shoes scuffing across the filth covered pavement while his cigarette hung lowly on his bottom lip. A lip that craved for attention; my attention anyway. He was the type of guy girls swooned over, the kind who could protect his woman. Easton Hayes. A total bad ass.
That’s what they called her, pointing her out in the middle of the room. A whirl of color as her dress moved with the melody. She was beautiful, or at least one version of beautiful. Delicate and lovely: the kind of beauty that is sometimes overlooked these days.
I could have agreed with them, could have lied and called her WHORE. But she was exquisite. A water color painting moving sinuously with the music entirely captivated. Any of us could have been her. Most of us probably wished we were, we just didn’t want to believe it.